Puppetmaster
by Scullspeare
Summary: As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy. Multi-chapter follo to Bridging Two Solitudes, set late in Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

**PUPPETMASTER **

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._

**RATED: **_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb__**. **_

**DISCLAIMER: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N: **_This is the oft-promised, much delayed follow-up to Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_. _The story picks up on the knee injury Sam suffered in Bridging Two Solitudes, and aggravated in Grave Consequences, but stands independently of both. If you haven't read those stories, the only thing you really need to know is that the O/C 'Doc,' who makes an extended cameo appearance here, is a surgeon based out of Stanford Medical Centre whom the brothers have known since Sam was 12. She lost her own family to a supernatural tragedy and, after that, became part of the support network for hunters. The story is set mid-to-late Season 2 – with much whumpage ahead on both sides of the Winchester fence. Really, I can't help myself. :)_

_Great big hugs and thanks to Amy and Ann, my most awesome betas – who also provided gentle encouragement and kicks in the butt to finish this story – and to Heather for the medical info that launched this little adventure. As a chronic tweaker, any mistakes that remain are mine alone. Enjoy._

**Chapter 1: **

"You send me to Hell, I'm taking your brother with me."

The spirit's smile was icy as he wrapped his arm tightly around Dean's neck. His captive pawed desperately at the spectral arm across his throat, gasps breaking and cracking as he fought to breathe, heels scraping the ground as he tried frantically to regain his footing.

Sam, eyes locked on Dean, swallowed against building panic as Patrick Corrigan dragged his brother toward the open grave where the killer's earthly remains were salted and soaked in gasoline. Standing at the edge of the grave, Sam's gaze slid to the spirit as he lit a book of matches and held it over the open casket. "Let. Him. Go."

"No." Corrigan's eyes glinted coldly as he tightened his hold. Starved of oxygen, Dean's body sagged, his hands falling limply to his sides, his eyes glazing over.

The spirit's smile widened, his gold tooth glinting in the harsh light of the camping lantern that illuminated the gravesite. As Sam lowered the matches, Corrigan's free hand grabbed the back of Dean's head. "Don't test me, whelp. I can snap his neck far quicker than that flame can reach my remains. Now, back away."

Sam's heart was slamming against his ribs as his eyes jumped back to his brother. Dean's gaze slid sluggishly toward Sam, his eyes losing focus but their message clear: "_Do it. Torch the bastard_."

The lit matches were burning low, searing Sam's fingers but in danger of going out. He was out of time and out of options; Corrigan wasn't about to back down. Sam dropped the book of matches into the grave.

The spirit's face hardened as the matches fell, the burst of flame as the gasoline ignited reflected in cruel eyes.

For Sam, all sound disappeared and everything around him moved in slow motion. Corrigan lifted his head, his cold smile returning as his eyes met his adversary's. The edges of his face and the arm around Dean's neck began to blacken as the flames consumed his remains, but the fire wasn't fast enough. Corrigan's fingers tightened in Dean's hair, snapping his head to the side, effortlessly breaking his neck.

"NO!" Sam screamed soundlessly as his brother's broken body, eyes wide in a vacant stare, toppled backwards into the open grave and the still hungry fire. It was Corrigan's laugh, low and menacing, that broke the silence, echoing long after his spirit form turned ash. Sam lunged forward, falling as he reached desperately for his brother but his hand closed on nothing but air as Dean tumbled beyond his reach and disappeared beneath the angry flames.

Heat scorched Sam's face, singed the hairs on his arm and seared his throat as he screamed his brother's name. "DEAN!"

"Sammy…hey, hey…I'm right here…I'm right here."

Sam started at the sound of Dean's voice. His eyes snapped open and he blinked rapidly against the suddenly bright light. He looked up to see his brother staring worriedly down at him.

Dean forced a smile. "Relax. You're safe. Everything went by the book."

Sam's chest was heaving as he struggled to draw in a deep breath. His hand shot out, grabbing hold of Dean's shirt. "You're okay…"

Dean's face twisted into a puzzled frown at his brother's obvious distress. "I'm fine. You're the one who just had surgery." He patted Sam's hand, which was still clinging to his shirt. "Now chill. Come on, take a deep breath."

"But …" Sam's face crumpled in confusion, "… he broke your neck."

"What?" Dean's frown deepened as he reached behind his brother and pressed a button on the wall. "Who did?"

Sam's breathing was still too fast. "Corrigan."

Dean snorted. "That bastard? He's toast. His ass is roasting in hell where it belongs."

Sam stared hard at his brother, trying to reconcile Dean's words with the images in his head. "But..."

"It was a nightmare, Sammy." Dean shook his head slowly as he touched the back of his hand to Sam's forehead. "No fever…must be the anesthesia screwing with your head."

"Anes…" Sam quickly scanned his surroundings. He was lying in a hospital bed, a door to his right, Dean to his left, standing beside a bank of medical equipment. The safety rails of his bed were raised and his right leg was slightly elevated beneath the crisp sheets and blue blanket. An IV was taped to the back of his left hand, the hand still holding tightly to his brother's shirt. He looked up at Dean, sheepishly releasing his hold as facts suddenly replaced fears.

Sam swallowed. "My knee…they fixed my knee."

Dean nodded. "And since Corrigan gets most of the credit for your knee being screwed in the first place, I guess it makes sense he'd have a starring role in your nightmare. What'd he do?"

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "We were salting and burning his remains. He showed up and, um, got the drop on you…"

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "Well that should have been your first clue something was off."

Sam's voice was quiet. "He threw you in the fire…I…I couldn't stop him."

Dean's smirk faded. "It was a nightmare, Sammy. That's all." He opened his arms wide. "Look. I'm fine. Not a scratch or a singe."

Sam's eyes stayed on Dean as the real version of the salt and burn played out in his head. Corrigan's spirit had shown up and attacked Dean but, unlike in his nightmare, Dean had been armed. As Corrigan grabbed Dean, the brothers had reacted simultaneously; Dean had shoved his shotgun into the spirit's spectral gut and blasted him with rock salt while Sam dropped the matches into the grave and lit up the remains. Dean had smiled widely as the killer dissipated for good with a scream of impotent rage. "_Rot in hell, compadre. Couldn't happen to a nicer spook_."

Sam's hand slid down the blanket, feeling the heavy surgical dressing and stabilizing brace under the covers. The surgery had repaired torn ligaments in his knee, an injury suffered in his first battle with Corrigan, then aggravated in the fight to save Dean's life after the angry spirit of Ezra Crandall buried his brother alive.

Sam stared at his knee. "How'd it go?"

Dean smiled, his worry retreating as Sam's breathing evened out. "Like I said, by the book. Well, our book, anyway." He studied Sam intently. "How you feeling? Any pain?"

Sam frowned, punching himself lightly in the thigh. "Dunno. Can't feel anything. Leg's still numb." He licked his lips. "But I'm thirsty."

Dean moved around the bed toward the pitcher of water on the metal nightstand to Sam's right. "You wanna sit up?"

Sam nodded and Dean pressed the button to raise the head of the bed, dropped a straw into a cup of water and passed it to his brother.

"Hey. How's my favorite patient?"

The brothers both turned toward the sound of the female voice. Dr. Kelly Caine, a long-time friend the Winchesters affectionately called Doc, was standing in the doorway.

Sam smiled tiredly. "Good, I guess. Dean says everything went okay."

"It did." Doc walked into the room and around to the far side of the bed, studying the monitors before leaning forward to turn off the call button. She tilted her head inquisitively as she smiled at Sam. "But what just happened, huh? Why did your monitors spike?"

"Nightmare." Dean shook his head at his brother, then turned to look up at Doc. "They fixed his knee but there's no cure for that freaky head of his."

"Nice." Sam's scowl turned into a grimace as pressure began to build behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes closed.

"Sammy?" Dean quickly took the cup of water from Sam's now visibly shaking hand.

Sam opened his eyes to find both Dean and Doc staring at him intently. "Relax – both of you. It's just a headache." He sighed as he took in Dean's disbelieving look. "A regular headache."

Doc pulled a penlight from her pocket and checked Sam's pupil reaction. After a few more simple tests and an examination of his knee, each conducted under a barrage of questions from Dean, Doc smiled reassuringly. "Everything looks as it should be. I'll order up a painkiller for your headache but, since we made you fast before surgery, I think hunger may be the culprit here. I know it would be with your brother." She smiled at Dean's scowl. "How 'bout we try breakfast first?"

Sam nodded, his head dropping back onto the pillow as Doc walked around the bed to pick up the phone from the nightstand and order him a meal. He closed his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, forcing himself to relax.

He'd been on edge ever since he found out the surgery was necessary. The procedure itself didn't scare him, but what might happen if surgeons couldn't fix the damage did. He worried that he couldn't back up Dean on a hunt; he worried about how they would pay for the operation and the lengthy rehabilitation; he worried about their fake insurance, knowing it wouldn't hold up if they dealt with the same hospital for more than a couple of days at a time; and, with Victor Henriksen now on their tail, he worried about how they'd stay off the grid if they were stuck in one place while he recovered.

"_Don't sweat the small stuff," Dean had said a week earlier when, after relentless prodding, Sam had finally voiced his concerns."_

"_Small stuff?" Sam's eyebrows arched incredulously. "We stay in one place too long we either get busted for insurance fraud or the FBI tracks us down. That's pretty big stuff in my book."_

_Dean, for once, had no smart ass reply. "We're talking about your leg, Sammy, your ability to walk. We're not screwing around with that. We're gonna do whatever it takes to get you better."_

"_But -"_

"_But nothing." Dean sat down on the side of his motel bed, facing Sam, who was sitting on his own bed, his injured leg propped up on pillows. "I got a call while you were sleeping. Doc came through. You're all set to have the surgery at Stanford." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "In the morning, you're gonna stretch out in the backseat and we'll drive down to Palo Alto. By the time we get there, everything should be good to go. Doc says this friend of hers who's doing your surgery, Dr. Tylenol, is one of the best in the country." He grinned. "I told her he'd better be."_

_Sam had to smile at Dean's protective streak. "It's Tynan?"_

"_What?"_

"_The surgeon – his name is Tynan."_

"_Whatever." Dean pushed himself up. "Don't care what his name is – only that he knows what he's doing."_

_Sam shook his head slowly. "I don't like dragging Doc into this. If the FBI finds out she's helping us, if-"_

_Dean snorted. "Nobody drags Doc into anything. She's had a soft spot for you since you were 12 and doesn't want just any schmoe digging around in your knee any more than I do."_

_Sam sighed. "I know but-"_

"_Sam, relax." Dean grabbed his duffel, threw it on his bed and unzipped it. "This really is the best option. If Dr. Tylenol is as good as his PR, you should be up and around in no time. As for everything else, it's covered. While you're in the hospital, we'll have Doc keeping an eye on things behind the scenes, warning us if the paperwork raises any red flags. The bill's being covered by that foundation she helped Pastor Jim set up, so no insurance fraud. On top of that, staying with her while you rehab means we're off the radar – no motel room registration, no fake credit cards to trip us up. Win-win-win, Sammy."_

_Sam looked over at Dean, his smile returning. "And Doc set all this up without any prompting from you, right?"_

"_Absolutely." Dean looked up from rolling his clothes and packing them expertly into his duffel, fighting hard to keep his expression serious. "You know how pushy she can be."_

"_Right." Sam shook his head. "And you're a complete pushover."_

A light smack on the arm pulled Sam from his reverie. "Heads up. Food's here."

His eyes snapped open in time to see Dean turn and walk toward the pretty brunette nurse standing in the doorway of his hospital room, holding a tray.

"Hey, Sam." The nurse's smile was warm and friendly. "I hear you're ready for some breakfast."

Dean reached for the tray, returning her smile in kind. "Yeah. Let me take that. Thanks, Mindy." He winked at her. "I didn't know you worked on this floor."

The nurse's smile faded quickly, her eyes flashing angrily at Dean. She turned abruptly toward Doc. "You need anything else, Dr. Caine?"

Doc bit back a smile. "No. We're good. Thanks."

With a heated glare at Dean, the nurse spun on her heels and left the room.

Sam canted his head as he stared at his brother. "What did you do?"

Dean's eyes widened innocently as he crossed the room, placed the breakfast tray on a rolling table, then moved the table toward Sam's bed. "Nothing – I swear."

A smile tugged at the corners of Sam's mouth as Doc lowered the safety rails and Dean slid the tray table in front of him. "'_Nothing_' doesn't earn you the look she just gave you."

Dean looked from Doc to Sam and raised his right hand. "On a stack of _Playboys_, Sammy – not a clue." His eyes darted back and forth as he sorted through memories, trying to think what he could have done to piss off the nurse. "We've run into each a few times since I've been hanging around here. Then, the other day, while you were going through your pre-op exam, I bumped into her in the cafeteria. She sat down next to me…we talked." A lazy smile slid across Dean's face.

Sam knew that smile. "_Talked_, huh?"

Busted, Dean scowled. "Yes, Sammy. Talked – mostly 'bout you, if you must know. She asked why I was here so I told her. She said not to worry, that your surgery was a pretty straightforward procedure, that your surgeon was one of the best in his field and that the rehab program here at Stanford is first rate."

Sam nodded. "All of which you knew because you grilled Dr. Tynan about the surgery at every single pre-op appointment I had."

Dean grinned. "But she didn't know that. If a pretty nurse wants to lend me a sympathetic ear, I'm not gonna shut her down." His eyes drifted off. "And what a pretty ear it was, which led to a long neck, which led-"

Sam snorted. "You didn't?"

"I did." Dean's grin widened. "In the elevator, on the way back, we…" He looked up at Doc, who was taking in the exchange bemusedly, and held up his hands. "Everything Rated G, I swear." His mouth twisted slightly. "Okay, maybe PG. But she was definitely a willing participant so I don't get why she's all pissed-off now."

Doc again bit back a smile. "I think I might know what the problem is."

Dean turned to Doc, looking genuinely puzzled. "What? Honest to God, I'm in the dark here."

Doc fought to keep a straight face. "Well, for a start, her name's Alicia."

"Oh, crap." Dean scowled at Sam's snort of amusement and jabbed a finger at his brother. "You – eat your breakfast." He shook his head, turning back to Doc. "Really? I could've sworn it was Mindy."

Sam massaged his temple distractedly. "Dude, they're not even close."

"She looks like a Mindy," Dean offered lamely.

Sam frowned over his building headache. "Weak, Dean."

Dean pulled a face. "I should have stuck with 'sweetheart.' You -" The retort faded quickly when he saw his brother squinting like the light hurt his eyes. "…need to eat." Dean moved the tray table closer to Sam, lifting the lid on the plate of food and failing miserably in his attempt to hide his disgust. "Scrambled egg whites and dry wheat toast. Looks…awesome." He picked up the fork and offered it to Sam. "Dig in."

Sam's expression as he looked down at his breakfast wasn't much better than Dean's.

Doc smiled sympathetically. "Don't worry. I've already told Dean where the best coffee shop is so he can smuggle in some good stuff later."

Sam looked hopefully at Doc. "He wouldn't have to if you'd just spring me. It's gotta count for something that when I go home there will, literally, be a doctor in the house."

Doc shook her head. "Sorry. You know Cole - Dr. Tynan - has some tests scheduled for later today and that a therapist is coming by to make sure you can handle the crutches properly."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What? The past six weeks haven't been enough practise?"

Doc smiled. "She'll also have a list of do's and don'ts for you – and please pay attention to the don'ts."

"Don't worry. He will." Dean cut off Sam before he could interrupt. "Look. You know what the deal is. It's just an overnight stay while they make sure everything's kosher, then you're outta here. Doc's even stocked the fridge with that Canadian beer you like so we can celebrate properly as soon as the meds are out of your system."

"I'm sick of hospitals." Sam sounded liked the cranky 12-year-old he'd been when the brothers first met Doc.

"Right with you on that, dude," Dean muttered as he again looked distastefully at the food Sam was pushing around his plate but making no attempt to eat. He turned to Doc. "Well, the crap this place tries to pass off as breakfast isn't going to improve his mood – which means I'm off on a food run. What'll it be, Sammy? Bacon and Eggs? Burger? Burrito?"

Sam dropped his fork, looking slightly green. "Dean, please."

Dean grinned. "Fine. How 'bout one of those smoothies you like – the one with all the fruits I can't pronounce?"

That raised a small smile. "Sounds good."

"Maybe a muffin, too?" Doc suggested. "You really should eat something solid."

Sam nodded.

"Smoothie and a muffin. Got it." Dean shook his head at Doc as he turned to walk out of the room. "See what California has done to my brother?" He paused in the doorway to look back at Sam. "Sure you don't want steak and eggs?"

Sam dropped his head back on the pillow. "Positive."

Dean shrugged. "Your loss."

"Hey, Dean."

He turned to Doc. "Yeah."

"Um, you might want to take the stairs." Doc again bit back a smile at Dean's puzzled expression. "Alicia's working the nurses' station by the elevators. She's a wonderful woman – but she does have a temper."

Dean's eyes widened. "Damn – and damn. Thanks." He stuck his head into the hallway, glancing cautiously to the right before moving quickly to the left.

Sam's smile disappeared with Dean. "Is he okay?"

Doc nodded slowly. "Yeah, he's fine. Just worried as hell about you, as usual."

"And about all the FBI crap we're in the middle of." Sam frowned. "Did he talk to you at all?"

Doc shook her head. "You know your brother. He just plasters on that bright smile, flashes those pretty green eyes of his and tells you everything's fine." She sighed. "I think you're the only one these days with the key code to get past his defenses."

Sam snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is Dean we're talking about; he changes that code daily." He stared over at the open doorway. "He looks, I dunno, tired."

Worry creased Doc's forehead. "I wish, more than anything, this injury had never happened but, I have to say, the forced break from hunting while you go through rehab may do you _both_ some good." She smiled. "Think about it; lots of fresh air and exercise, but no blood to wash out of your clothes at the end of the day. For a Winchester, that almost qualifies as a vacation."

"As long as Henriksen doesn't track us down." Sam pressed his fingers into his temple as his headache spiked again. "If the offer's still good, I think I'd like that painkiller you promised."

Doc's frown returned. "Okay." She glanced at Sam's untouched breakfast, pushing the glass of apple juice closer to him. "Look, at least drink the juice. That might help until Dean gets back with something edible." She smiled encouragingly. "I'll be right back."

Sam watched her leave and frowned, again massaging his temples in an attempt to ease the building pressure behind his eyes. The surgery had gone well, he'd be out of the hospital in the morning and, for the first week, he had nothing but kicking back at Doc's house to look forward to. His jaw clenched; so why then did something feel really, really off?

xxxXXXxxx

Dean sat on the low stone wall that separated the patio from the garden behind Doc's house. He took a long drink from his bottle of beer as he watched Sam chat with Doc. His brother was stretched out in a garden chaise, his injured leg encased in a heavy brace, his crutches propped against the fence beside him.

Sam laughed easily at something Doc said and winced only slightly as he twisted to his left to pick up the beer he'd set on the ground beside his chair.

His brother now had almost a month of therapy behind him, and he'd pushed himself to the limit each and every session in an effort to speed up his recovery.

"Always the overachiever, huh?" Dean mumbled, smiling softly. More than once the therapist had had to reel Sam in, stop him from pushing too hard, too fast and undoing all his hard-earned progress.

"_It's not a race, Sammy," Dean had said one night on the way home from a therapy session when Sam had vented his frustrations over his perceived lack of progress. "You're off your pain meds, there's no swelling in your knee, you've already doubled the repetitions for each exercise and that's all in less than a month. According to your docs, that's pretty damn good."_

"_It's still taking too long," Sam muttered leaning his head against the passenger-side window. "I know you're worried, that we've been here too long."_

_He sighed. Sam was right. At Doc's place they could relax, whether inside or in the big backyard where mature trees on all sides shielded them from potentially prying eyes. But when they left the house, it was another story. Their daily trips to the hospital and the gym were too regimented, too easy to track. Palo Alto was a small city but there were traffic and security cameras everywhere; the longer they maintained the pattern, the greater the odds they'd be spotted._

_They'd taken precautions – Dean varying his route each day, Doc renting them a car, the black SUV blending into the suburban landscape far more seamlessly than his beloved Impala – but the instinct he relied so heavily upon told him they were still pushing their luck._

_But as long as Sam was making progress, getting stronger, he wasn't willing to hit the road. "Just chill," he'd told his brother. "Concentrate on getting better. I'm watching your back – trust me, no one's sneaking up on us."_

_Sam didn't look convinced but he'd let it slide. Dean suspected it was partly because, beyond the FBI worries, Sam liked being in Palo Alto. He liked having academic discussions with Doc; he liked watching baseball games with Dean, arguing over who had the best starting line-up rather than what incantation or weapon would most effectively get rid of the monster of the week. He liked waking up in the same bed for more than two nights in a row._

_Their time in the city was also healing more than physical injuries for his brother. At first, Sam had struggled with his memories of Jess, of their time together at Stanford, but, with each day, he seemed to rediscover happy moments to help balance the horrific ones that still haunted him._

_There was so much about his brother's relationship with Jessica that Dean didn't know. The nightmares about her death that left his brother shaky and withdrawn were less frequent now but easily stoked by a run-in with a demon or even something as innocent as a chance encounter with a tall blonde. But in Palo Alto, familiar sights had spurred more pleasant memories that Sam both relished reliving and shared readily with Dean._

_He pointed out the Italian restaurant where he and Jess spent their first date, a disaster, in Sam's eyes, thanks to an uncooperative bowl of spaghetti. Dean had just laughed. "Dude, I don't think your table manners were what she fell for. She moved in with you, didn't she?"_

_Then there was the theater where Jess had taken him to see Our Town. Sam had forgotten he'd told her about being in the play in high school but Jess hadn't. As they left the theater following the performance, she'd produced a paperback version of the script, pulled him into a nearby park and talked him into re-enacting the homework scene between George and Emily._

_Dean had shaken his head at that one. "So the smokin' hot bod hid the heart of a geek, huh?"_

_Sam's smile was bittersweet. "Yeah. You would've liked her."_

_Dean returned his smile in kind. "I know I would, Sammy. I have a soft spot for geeks."_

_Dean loved seeing Sam with his guard down and wished for only the thousandth time that circumstances had been different – that his brother had gotten a chance to build a life with Jessica, and that he had gotten a chance to know the woman Sam wanted to marry._

_But that wasn't the hand they'd been dealt. It only took a police siren or even someone accidentally bumping into them on a street to put them both on edge again, guards up full force._

_Bobby had been in regular contact, checking on Sam's progress and issuing a standing offer to use his place to hole up in while Sam recovered. There was no question that Bobby's house was a better hideout but it was also halfway across the country. His brother still needed crutches to move around and the bulky leg brace he wore made long trips in the car uncomfortable on a good day, unbearable on a bad one._

_Sam's therapy regimen also required access to a pool and a gym – amenities rarely, if ever, offered by the type of motels the Winchesters would frequent on the cross-country trek, and not readily available near Singer Salvage. _

"Hey."

Dean snapped out of his thoughts to find Sam and Doc staring at him.

Sam frowned. "You've got that 'we should be moving on' look on your face."

Dean took another drink of his beer and shook his head. "I told you, Sammy. Not 'til you're done your therapy."

Sam rubbed the brace on his leg self-consciously. "Look, we've been jury-rigging workouts and first-aid our whole lives; this is no different. We'll figure somethin' out."

Dean stood up, stretching to unkink his back. "I said no. Until you can handle a 10-hour stretch in the car, or can cut and run if we're in trouble, we're not goin' anywhere."

Seeing a potential argument brewing, Doc cut off Sam. "What if there's another solution?" She smiled at the identical frowns on the brothers' faces. "Look, as much as I've enjoyed your company, and you're welcome to stay as long as you like, I know you're both worried, and that's doing Sam's recovery no favors. So …" She reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys and tossed them to Dean. "Here, I'm prescribing a vacation."

Dean caught the keys easily then raised his eyebrows at Doc. "What are these for?'

"A cabin in the Sierra Nevada foothills, west of Lake Tahoe. Belongs to a friend of mine, Jake Ellison. It's secluded, the nearest neighbor is five miles away, and it has no traceable ties to anything Winchester or the hunting world."

Dean's frown deepened. "Sounds like it would solve our FBI problem, but how is that good for Sam?"

Doc smiled. "Jake's a surgeon but a pretty serious triathlete. He had a lap pool and home gym installed in the cabin a few years back so he could keep up his training when he takes his boys up there for ski weekends. The family doesn't use the cabin much in the summer though, so it's yours if you want it."

Dean rolled the keys in his fingers. "Sammy?"

Sam glanced from Dean to Doc. "This Jake – he's cool with two strangers moving into his place?"

Doc nodded. "He's good friends with Cole Tynan so he knows about your case. He's more than happy to give my _cousin_ a quiet place to rehab." She grinned. "Besides, the number of on-call weekends I've covered for him so he could head up to that cabin with his boys, he considers this getting off easy. He figured he owed me at least part ownership."

Dean's eyes narrowed, a sly smile spreading across his face. "So, you and this Dr. Jake – you two got a thing going?"

Doc laughed. "No – Jake and his wife Linda are both friends of mine. This is just one friend helping out another – nothing more." Her smile softened. "Look, the two of you deserve a break. I know it runs against instinct, but look at this as a chance to relax and enjoy yourselves. Trust me; there'll still be plenty of bad guys, real and otherwise, when you're ready to go back to work."

Dean glanced at Sam before turning to face Doc. "Thanks – really. But Tahoe's what – three, four hours from here?" He gestured with his head toward Sam. "Is he gonna be okay in the car that long?"

Sam scowled, huffing in annoyance. "Right here, Dean. And I'll be fine."

Seeing Dean about to protest, Doc cut in. "He's right, Dean. He'll be fine." She turned to Sam. "Although I would highly recommend, for the first trip anyway, you stretch out in the back seat rather than trying to fold all nine feet of you into the front."

Sam shook his head. "No way. I-

"Sam."

The threatening tone in Dean's voice told Sam his brother was prepared to argue the point until dawn if necessary. He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. If playing chauffeur makes you happy, knock yourself out."

Dean glared, which only encouraged his brother.

Sam's smile widened to a grin. "Think maybe you could wear one of those caps, you know with the peak. Open the door for me…"

Dean's only response was a middle finger hoisted in the air as he stalked across the patio and into the house, ignoring the laughter behind him.

xxxXXXxxx

The brothers' first view of the cabin the next day had abruptly ended a good-natured argument over Dave Mustaine's role in the Metallica legacy. The Ellisons' place was set well back from the gravel road, up a long, curving driveway. The rough-hewn logs of the chalet-style structure framed large windows that looked out over the surrounding Sierra Nevada foothills.

Pulling up in front of the cabin, gravel crunching under the tires, Dean turned off the engine, climbed out of the car and scanned the property. A garage to the side of the main building would keep the Impala tucked safely out of sight. The rough, hilly terrain at the back made any approach through the woods difficult - if not impossible - and the house also offered a clear view down the drive to the road below. He nodded approvingly. No one would be sneaking up on them.

He walked to the back of the car, popped open the trunk and pulled out all three duffel bags. Sam, now balanced on his crutches, raised an eyebrow at the weapons bag. "Business as usual, huh?"

Dean shrugged as he slung the weapons bag over his shoulder and picked up both Sam's duffel and his own after slamming the trunk shut. "We may be safe from the FBI here but our usual playmates have better informants."

"Can't argue that." Sam moved off toward the house. "I'll salt the windows as soon as we get inside."

Walking through the front door for the first time, Dean let out a low whistle. The open-concept great room held a living area, kitchen and dining room and was dominated by a stone fireplace that climbed 14 feet to the apex of the peaked ceiling. The floors were wide-plank weathered oak, the walls the same rough timber as the exterior of the cabin. The furniture was overstuffed and oversized in deep reds and blues, giving the house a comfortable, masculine feel, but the coordinated furnishings and decorative touches said Linda Ellison had had plenty of input.

Sam's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs as he glanced around the room. "Whoa. A step up from our usual backwoods hideouts."

Dean shot Sam a look as he dropped the duffels on the floor. "A step? It's got an indoor pool. We're usually lucky if we get indoor plumbing."

A staircase tucked behind the fireplace led to a second-story loft that overlooked the great room. Dean took the stairs two at a time, then reappeared a few moments later behind the railing that fronted the loft, grinning down at Sam. "Good thing you're climbing stairs again – there's a freaking pool table up here."

A small hallway to the right of the fireplace led to three bedrooms; the master suite with its own bathroom and two smaller bedrooms which shared a second bathroom. A hallway to the left of the kitchen led to the pool house.

Dean came down the stairs, crossed into the living room and flopped onto one of the big couches. He twisted around, pulled his feet up and, lying down, there was still room to spare. He grinned. "Dude, check it out – this sofa's Sammy-sized."

Sam shook his head as he glanced around. "I dunno, Dean. I'm not sure I can handle this luxury. Might have to punch a hole in the ceiling or make the pipes leak just so I feel at home."

Dean's grin widened. "Suck it up, soldier. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And if getting you better means living in style, we'll just have to suffer through it." He sat up and checked his watch. "Looks like you're overdue for a workout. Get yourself changed while I unload the groceries from the car, then we'll hit the pool."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You gonna be this bossy every day?"

Dean pursed his lips. "Pretty much. Get used to it." He offered an exaggerated grin, before carrying Sam's duffel into one of the bedrooms, tossing it on the bed, then heading out to the car.

Sam smiled as he made his way slowly toward the bedroom. The two of them could butt heads at the best of times but Dean had been nothing but supportive over the past month, knowing instinctively whether Sam needed a pat on the back or the kick in the ass to get through a therapy session.

Reaching the bedroom, he balanced himself on his good leg, leaned the crutches against the side of the bed and unzipped his duffel. He reached for his workout clothes, hesitated, then dug in the corner of his bag instead. He pulled out the bottle of painkillers, dumped out three pills and dry swallowed them, hoping they'd chase away the now all-too-familiar headache.

xxxXXXxxx

"Push it, Sam. Push it."

Sam _was_ pushing it, but it was still nowhere near as fast as he wanted, or needed, to go.

"Move it, Sam. You're almost out of time."

There was urgency in Dean's voice, driving Sam to dig deep, move faster. With one last burst of energy he lunged forward and his hand hit the wall.

Dean's voice softened immediately. "Not bad, Sammy; shaved another two seconds off your best time."

Breathing heavily, Sam grabbed the side of the pool and looked up at his brother. Dean, dressed uncharacteristically in swim shorts and a t-shirt, stood above him on the pool deck, stopwatch in hand, feet bare, his towel slung round his neck. He grinned as he waggled the stopwatch at Sam. "You're down almost 20 seconds since we started timing you."

While swimming was part of Sam's prescribed rehab program, racing the clock was a wrinkle the brothers had come up with to liven up the daily routine.

Sam tucked his feet under him and stood up, scrubbing a hand across his face to clear the water from his eyes before raking both hands through his wet hair. His bare chest still heaving from the exertion of his sprint down the pool, he squinted against the late afternoon sun that backlit his brother. "You're lovin' this, aren't you? Me doin' all the work while you're up there supervising."

"It's called coaching, Sam." Dean tossed the stopwatch on a poolside chaise, and then grinned down at his brother. "And don't kid yourself. It's tough work whipping your ass in shape. But it's working; your knee's getting stronger." He grinned. "And you're turning into a half-way decent swimmer."

Sam snorted. "Half-way decent? Get your ass in here and I'll race you. I'll be half-way down the pool before you even hit the water."

"Dream on, Sammy." Dean's expression grew serious when Sam grimaced as he reached under the water to rub his injured knee. "What?"

"Relax…it's nothing."

Sam sounded annoyed more than in pain but worry was always in easy reach for Dean. "What is it?" His raised eyebrow was a demand for more information.

Sam sighed. "I'm just frustrated. When I'm going full out, I'm still relying too much on upper body strength. There's no power when I kick."

"Give it time." Dean's frown relaxed slightly. "It's only been three months since your surgery. The doctors told you it could take up to nine months to get you back to 100 per cent." He grinned, pulling the towel from around his neck and tossing it on the chaise next to the stopwatch. "Shows what they know; you're way ahead of schedule. And that, as we've just established, is no small thanks to Coach Dean."

Rolling his eyes, Sam reached up toward his brother. "Think you can stop patting yourself on the back long enough to give me a hand outta here?"

Dean reached down to grab Sam's hand. He caught the grin on Sam's face a fraction too late; Sam latched on to Dean's wrist and, with a quick tug, pulled his brother off his feet and head first into the pool.

Dean instinctively rolled as he hit the water, surfacing quickly to the sound of Sam's high-pitched laughter. He fought to maintain his mask of annoyance as he stood up, scrubbing the water from his face. He was an idiot for falling for such an obvious ploy but, damn, it was good to hear Sam laugh. Their screwed-up life offered far too few chances to goof around and just be brothers.

Dean gave his head an exaggerated shake, sending water droplets flying. He was still biting back a smile as he smacked the surface, throwing a shower of water over Sam. "That's it, Winchester! Two extra laps for disrespecting the coach. Move it."

"Yes, sir." Sam was grinning widely as he dropped down into the water, rolled onto his back and pushed off the wall. Hands trailing at his sides, he used his legs alone to power his way down the pool, the rhythmic kicking stretching and strengthening the ligaments in his injured knee.

Dean returned his grin then swam to the side, easily pulling himself out of the pool. Dripping water as he crossed the stone deck toward the chaise, he reached behind his neck, hauled his soggy t-shirt over his head, scrunched it into a ball and threw it at his brother. "Hey, and by two laps I mean to the other end of the pool and back – twice."

Sam turned his head in time to see the t-shirt come flying at him, dodged it then scowled at his brother in mock annoyance. "Slave driver."

Dean smiled as he grabbed his towel to dry himself off. "Sticks and stones, Sammy. You'll thank me later."

After almost two months, the cabin now felt strangely comfortable. Dean shook his head when he realized that it was the only time in their adult lives the brothers had shared the same place for that long.

He squinted against the late afternoon sun spilling in through the skylights as he watched Sam work his way down the pool. Over the past eight weeks, they'd spent a big part of each day in the pool house, either swimming or working out in the small but well-equipped gym tucked in the corner.

As much as he teased his brother, Dean was damn proud of Sam, of the doggedly determined way he'd applied himself to his therapy. Even now, he could tell Sam was pushing himself, forcing himself to use his injured knee as much as possible, willing it to work as it had before the surgery.

Sam no longer needed crutches or the hated cane that had replaced them, and the bulky immobilizing brace had recently been ditched in favor of a simple knee support. Even his limp was growing less noticeable each day.

It was their last week at the cabin. The plan now was to make their way toward Bobby's, kick back there for another month then take on a few simple gigs to ease their way back into hunting.

Dean called out to Sam who was almost at the far end of the pool. "Get the lead out. You've still got half an hour on the bike before you call it quits for the day."

Sam grinned as he turned his head to look back at Dean. "You're a real tyrant, you know that?"

Dean returned his grin. "Me? I'm a teddy bear." He closed his eyes, listening to _Dazed and Confused_ playing out over the sound system wired throughout the house. He sighed. "Dude, I am gonna miss this place – especially Doc Ellison's music collection. I mean, the guy installs a state-of-the-art sound system _just_ so to he can listen to Zeppelin on vinyl. _Original vinyl_. You gotta respect that."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam dropped his head back in the water, his grin widening as he listened to his brother wax poetically about the doctor's taste in music. Dean had been like a kid in a candy store when he'd discovered that Jake Ellison was a classic rock fan and that his college-era record collection was now housed at the cabin.

And that told Sam his brother was relaxing. He wasn't naïve; with Dean, worry was never far below the surface and, like at Doc's house, it reappeared quickly any time they left the safety of the cabin. But here at least he was able to relax, the two of them enjoying a kind of simple, brotherly camaraderie that hunting had made next to impossible most of their lives.

Once a week the brothers made the three-hour trek into Palo Alto for Sam's check-ups and to replenish supplies. While Dean loved the drive, loved to be back behind the wheel, he hated the risk inherent to those trips, varying his route each time, always on the look out for anyone or anything that posed a threat.

If Sam questioned him on it, he'd brush it off quickly. But Sam knew his brother too well; the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the tense way Dean held himself, the furrow in his forehead as his eyes darted across the roads, or scanned the crowds for any sign of potential danger, all told him Dean was back in hunter mode.

But once they were back at the cabin, Dean was able to let down his guard a little, join Sam in his daily workouts, relentlessly teasing his brother when things were going well, gently pushing him on days when he grew frustrated.

This was the brother Sam had idolized growing up, the brother he had seen far too little of since their dad had died.

When they first settled into the cabin, Sam was sure his brother would go stir crazy inside of a week, chomping at the bit to get back on the road and back to hunting. But Dean seemed to welcome the break.

He thought back to Dean's confession in River Grove, Oregon when they believed Sam had been infected with the demonic virus. "I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life. . .this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it."

Sam knew that admission was for his benefit, an excuse to stick by his side as Dean had done their whole lives, but the truth behind the lie was a shock. Dean had always been more complicated than most people gave him credit for, but Sam knew him better than anyone and had always thought of him as a natural hunter. To hear Dean admit he was tired of hunting, a life he'd been groomed for since the age of four and once seemed to accept as his father's legacy, had rattled him.

It made him relish even more this chance, however brief, to experience what life might be like for them if hunting wasn't part of the equation.

But, still, hunting was never far out of reach. They cleaned their weapons on a regular basis and restocked ammunition, spreading newspaper and cardboard across the Ellisons' granite counters as they cast silver bullets and packed rock-salt cartridges. They routinely scanned the cabin with the EMF meter and faithfully maintained the salt lines on the doors and windows and protective symbols chalked around each entrance.

They played pool and poker, honing their hustling skills by trying to outplay and out bluff each other for the right to pick that night's movie from the Ellisons' eclectic DVD library. Dean had been especially motivated one afternoon after a lost shoe had led to the discovery of Porky's: The Ultimate Collection stashed under the bed in the Ellisons' eldest son's room.

The memory made Sam smile as he approached the end of the pool. He twisted around in the water, pushed off the wall, and began working his way back toward Dean.

"_I've waited long enough_."

Sam stopped swimming and looked up at his brother. "You're the one who gave me the extra laps."

Dean, sitting on the end of the chaise, using his towel to rub his hair dry, frowned at Sam. "What?"

Sam exhaled loudly. "If you're bitching about waiting for me, you shouldn't have given me the extra laps, _coach_."

Dean's eyebrows peaked. "What the hell are you talking about? I didn't say anything."

Sam tilted his head, puzzled. "Huh. Could have sworn ..." He shook his head. "Must have water in my ears."

Dean stood up, stretching. "Either that or cabin fever's setting in. How about going into Tahoe City tonight? Since we're leaving in a couple of days, I think we can risk another night out. Three in two months isn't exactly pushing it."

Sam nodded. "Sure. Sounds good."

"Okay." Dean smiled. "Now move your ass and we might still be able to make happy hour at Joe's Pool Hall."

Sam returned the smile. "Thinking about putting all that practise on the pool table upstairs to good use?"

Dean shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt to build up our cash reserves." He grinned. "But I had a different kind of entertainment in mind."

Sam dropped down into the water, using the breast stroke to complete the return leg of the first lap. "So it's the happy hour that's the attraction. What was the bartender's name? Jenna?"

Dean's eyes flashed. "Yeah. As much as I enjoy your company, Sammy, there are some comforts you can't provide, and let's just say an hour with Jenna would make me very happy. Want me to ask if she has a friend?"

Sam snorted. "No. I still have nightmares from the last time you fixed me up."

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, that was…unfortunate." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "But don't say I didn't offer. I'll hook up with Jenna; you can hit the pool table and hustle the locals." He grinned. "Play up the bum knee. They'll feel sorry for you - at least till you start taking all their hard-earned cash."

Sam grinned as he touched the wall before rolling over, switching to the crawl and speeding down the pool on the first leg of his second lap.

Dean's voice, once again talking about Zeppelin, faded behind the quiet splashing of Sam's rhythmic kicks as he moved toward the far end of the pool. His arms cut through the water in a smooth, efficient stroke, his face staying underwater until his head turned to his right to breathe on every fourth stroke in disciplined racing style.

He frowned as a headache started to form, his frown deepening as the pressure behind his eyes suddenly filled his head with a loud buzzing that quickly morphed into angry whispers. He stopped swimming, pressing his fingers to his temples as the whispers built in intensity, the multiple voices seemingly fighting to be heard but their words unintelligible.

Sam tucked his feet under him and stood up slowly, water rippling away from him as he turned quickly, scanning the pool house for the source of the voices. There was no one but Dean, who was now crossing the pool deck toward the door that led into the house.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, the building intensity of the voices making him dizzy.

"_It's their turn to pay_."

The single deep voice behind him silenced the whispers. Sam's eyes snapped open and he whirled around but, again, there was no one there. He turned back toward Dean. "Did you hear that?"

Dean stopped and turned to face Sam. "Hear what?"

Sam shivered as goosebumps danced up his arms. "The voice."

Dean frowned, taking a few steps toward the pool. "'Scuze me?"

Sam wiped the water from his face. "I heard a man's voice say, 'He'll never see it coming.'"

Dean's eyes darted around the pool warily. "You're hearing voices? Since when?"

"Since now," Sam turned slowly but the only sounds were the ripple of water as he moved through it and the strains of Zeppelin over the speaker system. He frowned at Dean, suddenly racked by doubt. "What about the whispers? You didn't hear them either?"

Dean's body tensed, quickly slipping into hunter mode at even the suggestion of a threat. "What's going on, Sammy?"

Sam swallowed uncomfortably. "Whispering. A bunch of voices. It sounded like an argument, but I couldn't tell what they were saying."

Dean's eyes narrowed worriedly. "Vision?"

Sam' shook his head hesitantly. "No. At least I don't think so. I didn't _see _anything. I just heard…" He sighed. "I'm not sure what I heard."

He listened again but the music was the only thing cutting through the silence. Sam raked his fingers through his hair, puzzled. "It's gone. Whatever it was…I…I dunno…"

Dean quickly scanned the windows of the poolhouse, making sure the humidity hadn't broken the salt lines along each sill. They were intact. Still, his worry weakened his attempt at a reassuring smile. "Like I said before, Sammy, we've been cooped up here too long. We're goin' stir crazy. But I'll give the place another once-over with the EMF – just to be sure."

Sam nodded as his brother turned to head back to the house. He had almost convinced himself he had been hearing things when the whispered voices again echoed through his head.

He spun around at the sound of deep, cold laughter behind him. At first there was nothing there. Then his chest tightened as, for a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of a man standing on the deck at the far end of the pool. The apparition blinked in and out of sight quickly but Sam saw him clearly. He was tall and thin, his lank dark hair featuring a single, wide streak of gray just above his right eye. He wore a dark shirt with a string tie at the neck, dark pants and a long, black duster coat that rustled around his ankles, moved by a non-existent breeze. Intense eyes burned into Sam as his mouth twisted into a dangerous smile.

Another voice, distinct from the first, echoed through his head as the apparition vanished. "_Stop him._"

Sam spun around to call his brother then flinched as a sudden, sharp pain flared behind his eyes. The pain stole his breath, causing him to stagger drunkenly before regaining his balance.

Dean, reaching for the door knob, his back to the pool, turned quickly at the sharp splash. He was in time to see Sam stumble and almost fall. "Sammy?"

"Did…you…" Sam took an unsteady step, pointing to where the apparition had been, when the pain in his head flared again, this time sharper and more intense. "Gah…"

Dean's eyes widened as his brother cried out in pain, clutched his head and toppled over, disappearing below the water.

Dean charged back toward the pool as Sam surfaced, coughing and choking on the water he'd inhaled, his hand pressed to his temple, his face contorted in pain. Dean could only look on in horror as his brother fell again, unconscious, and slid beneath the surface.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean dived into the pool without breaking stride. Opening his eyes under water as he kicked out toward his brother, his chest tightened at the sight in front of him. Fifteen feet away, Sam lay convulsing on the bottom of the pool.

_**To Be Continued**_…

_**A/N**__: Hope you're enjoying. Cheers, and thanks for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N:** _A great big thanks to everyone who checked out this story, added it to alerts and sent along reviews or comments – hugs to all. To the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – you rock! Thanks for the beta, the encouragement and the occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. Hope you enjoy._

**CHAPTER 2**

Dean sprinted across the deck and dived into the pool without breaking stride. Opening his eyes under water as he kicked out toward his brother, his chest tightened at the sight of Sam convulsing on the bottom at the far end.

Sam's eyes were closed, his arms clenched at his side. His face was contorted as if, even in unconsciousness, he fought against whatever pain was ripping through him. A steady stream of bubbles from his mouth and nose raced to the surface.

Dean powered his way through the water and was at his brother's side in seconds. He hooked his arms around Sam and pushed off the bottom of the pool, driving them both to the surface four feet above.

They broke through in a shower of water. Dean sucked in air, staggering sideways to find his balance and shifting his grip to better support Sam. He wrapped his right arm around his brother, pulling him in so his back rested against Dean's chest, and used his left hand to still Sam's head, which was slamming steadily against his brother's shoulder.

"Sammy?" Dean's chest was heaving, his eyes widening as tremors continued to rack his brother's body.

Then, as quickly as it started, the fit stopped. Sam suddenly went lax, rigid arms falling limply to float at his sides, his head lolling forward.

Dean barely had time to adjust his hold before Sam's eyes snapped open and he jack-knifed in the water, coughing violently.

"Hey. Hey. You're okay. You're okay." Dean fought to maintain his grip on his now struggling brother, his own breathing harsh and rapid as Sam continued to cough up water.

As Sam's lungs cleared and his coughing quieted, his head fell back onto Dean's shoulder.

Dean's heart was racing. Sam lay exhausted against him, arms and legs floating in the water, making no move to break from his brother's hold. "Talk to me, Sammy. How you doin' in there?"

Sam's eyes slid closed. His voice was barely audible. "Just gimme a sec…pain's gone now."

"Pain? Where?"

Sam coughed again. "Headache...bad one."

Dean's worry ratcheted up another notch. "We talking 'get me a doctor' headache or 'I see dead people' headache?"

Sam kept coughing, spitting up more water.

"Never mind. First, we need to get you on dry land." Dean gently turned his brother's head to get a better look at his face, and frowned as Sam blinked slowly as if struggling to stay conscious. "Hey? You still with me?"

Sam nodded, forcing open his eyes.

Dean slowly towed Sam through the water toward the set of steps in the corner of the pool. "Can you walk?"

Sam blinked at the steps in front of him. "Yeah." With another cough, he pulled his feet underneath him and reached forward to grab the railing that ran down the centre of the steps. Still leaning heavily on Dean, and with a death grip on the handrail, he made it out of the pool under his own steam but his legs seemed rubbery and his gait uncoordinated. Once on the pool deck, Sam offered no protest when Dean kept his right arm wrapped around his waist and pulled Sam's left arm across his shoulders.

Dean smiled tightly. "Come on, Bambi. The house is this way."

Sam ignored the teasing jibe, concentrating simply on putting one foot in front of the other.

The one-minute trek to the bedroom took closer to five. Still, as they walked, Sam's pace became steadier and his breathing evened out. When they reached the doorway to the bedroom, he pushed away from Dean, limped over to the bed and sat down, his injured leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom, returning quickly with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. He shook out three pills, then hesitated as he looked over his brother. "These gonna stay down? Or you got more pool water to get rid of?"

Sam shook his head. "M'okay."

Dean's snort showed what he thought of that assessment. "How's your breathing?"

"Fine."

"Maybe we should take you to the clinic in Tahoe. It's just-"

"No." Sam fixed Dean with a tired stare, holding out his hand. "I don't need a clinic, just those pills – please."

Dean handed him the painkillers. "Dude, you're shivering. I'll go turn the shower on."

"No shower." Sam pushed himself to his feet after downing the pills. He seemed shaky but maintained his balance as he crossed to the dresser to grab dry clothes. "Thanks, but I've had enough water for one day."

A half-hour later, he was dressed in sweat pants and a hoodie and sitting in the living room, his injured knee stretched out along the couch. He was still shivering slightly, despite the blanket wrapped around him and the fire Dean had set in the big stone fireplace that dominated the cabin's great room..

"Here." Dean, walking in from the kitchen, passed his brother a mug.

Sam sniffed it suspiciously. "Tea?"

Dean shrugged. "Found it in the cupboard. Probably Mrs. Ellison's. Just drink it."

Sam sipped it, nodding favorably. "Peppermint."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Is that good or bad?"

Sam smiled. "Good. Really. Jess used to make it if I had a cold or was stressing over exams. She swore by it."

"Oh." Dean frowned, sitting down on the coffee table in front of Sam, rubbing his hands absently on his jeans before leaning forward on his elbows. "You wanna tell me what just happened?" His frown deepened at Sam's hesitation. "You almost drowning, the voices you were hearing before…it was all tied to a vision, right?"

"I'm not sure." Sam rubbed his temple distractedly. "It felt like a vision, the way the pain hit really fast, really hard, you know, but…I didn't _see_ things the way I usually do."

Dean sat back. "So no Tarantino-style preview of mayhem to come?"

"No."

Dean's frown turned into a scowl. "All pain, no gain – what kind of sorry-ass vision is that?"

Sam shook his head. "There was something. I did get an image, I mean, but only for a second."

"Of what?"

Sam ran his thumb along the side of his mug. "A man…standing at the end of the pool."

Dean's eyebrows peaked. "Here? At the cabin?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, tall guy, long dark hair with a silver streak through the front, just standing there, looking at me."

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck but his eyes stayed locked on his brother. "Okay. Let's rewind. Start from the beginning."

Sam took a sip of his tea then closed his eyes. "I heard a voice. At first, I thought it was you. It said, 'I've waited long enough.'"

Dean nodded. "That's when you were busting my chops about the extra laps?"

Sam nodded. "After that, I heard whispering – like a bunch of different voices, each trying to make themselves heard, but I couldn't make out anything they were saying. Then the whispers stopped and I heard the same male voice say, 'It's their turn to pay.' And, before you ask; no, I don't have a clue what it means."

Dean's jaw clenched. "And that's it? That's all he said?"

"Technically, he didn't say anything." Sam shrugged. "They were like two separate things. I got this quick hit of the man standing on the pool deck. But the voices…the whispering," he tapped the side of his head, "they were all in here."

He stared down at his mug of tea. "Then, after the guy disappeared, there was a second voice. It said…'Stop him.'"

Dean leaned in again. "I'll bite: Stop who?"

"Wish I knew." Sam shook his head. "Seems like every time I have a vision, there's a new wrinkle."

"Well I don't like this wrinkle." Dean stood up and began pacing. "Especially the convulsing and almost drowning part."

Sam looked up in shock. "Convulsions?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Convulsions. Scared the crap out of me." Dean shot a worried scowl at his brother. "Which is why we should be on our way to the doctor right now."

Sam ignored the pointed comment, glancing around the cabin. "What if it wasn't a vision?" He turned back to Dean. "What if…the Ellisons have a spirit or two in here and that's what I'm picking up on. What if, because of my psychic thing, it…they…think they can get a message out to me, through me."

"That's a lot of what ifs," Dean muttered, casting a glance around the great room. "Besides, we've scanned this place dozens of times since we got here. If there's a resident Casper, we should have picked up something before now."

Sam carded his fingers through his hair. "I know, but it definitely felt like they, whoever they are, were talking to me, rather than me just overhearing things."

Dean frowned. "There's another wrinkle I don't like. After we see Doc in the morning, we-"

"What?"

Now it was Dean's turn to shrug. "I called Doc while you were getting dressed. Moved up this week's appointment to tomorrow."

"No." Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "This is either vision-related or spirit-related. It's not something doctors can fix."

"Maybe not." Dean sat down again in front of his brother. "But it sure as hell took a physical toll. Look," he cut off Sam as he was about to object again. "We're due to hit the road in a couple of days. Whether we go or stick around here if it turns out a spook is behind this, I want a medical all-clear. As long as I know you're okay physically, we'll handle it if it's…something else."

"Yeah." Sam drained the rest of his tea and put down the empty mug on the end table. "I don't wanna fight, I'm just beat, that's all. Think I'm gonna turn in."

Dean nodded, standing up to move out of Sam's way as his brother threw off the blanket and got stiffly to his feet. "But I'm sleeping on the floor at side of your bed tonight. Don't step on me if you get up to take a leak."

"Dean, come on..."

"Sorry, Doc's orders. If you won't get yourself checked out tonight, I need to keep an ear on your breathing." Dean shrugged. "Not too late to change your mind. I'm still up for drive into Tahoe."

"I'm fine." Despite the assertion, Sam moved slowly, his limp a little more pronounced than it had been. He paused in the doorway, turning back toward Dean. "Listen, what you did in there…you saved my ass – again."

"And you said nothing good would ever come from watching Baywatch." Dean grinned as he turned to toss another log on the fire. "Bet I would've looked pretty awesome running in slow motion."

Sam just shook his head. "G'night, Dean. I'll try not to step on you in the morning."

"G'night." Dean's game face faded the minute his brother's back was turned. The only thing he hated more than something messing with Sam was that he couldn't stop it.

He scanned the room quickly; the lines of salt were still in place at every window, the protection symbols they'd drawn in chalk on either side of the door intact. Their presence was usually a security blanket but here, now, they set him on edge. If what had happened to Sam was something other than a 'normal' vision, if a spirit had reached out to him like his brother had theorized, it had blown past every line of protection like they were non-existent. Not to mention evaded every routine sweep of the place they'd made in two months.

Dean walked over to the hall closet, pulled out the duffle bag stashed inside and grabbed the EMF meter to scan the place one more time. He hesitated only a second then reached for a shotgun and a case of rock salt shells. Keeping that within reach wouldn't hurt either.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam seemed back to his old self the next morning. His headache was gone, his skin no longer pallid and his limp almost non-existent, but Dean quickly shut down his renewed attempts to cancel his hospital appointment.

"Don't be a wuss," he growled as they walked to the car. "You knew you had one more appointment before we hit the road; this is just moving it up a couple of days."

Sam said no more and put the three-hour drive into Palo Alto to good use, using the satellite card for his laptop to surf the net for information on the Ellisons' cabin. After 90 minutes and a few phone calls, including one to Dr. Ellison, he looked over at Dean and shrugged.

"I think we can cross Casper off our list of suspects. The Ellisons had the cabin custom built 10 years ago. It may look rustic but all the materials are new. Furnishings too – no antiques."

Dean frowned. "What about the site?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. They cleared a vacant lot for the house. No ruins of a former homestead, no old cemetery or ancient burial ground, no reports of accidents or lost hikers in the area… I mean, it could always be someone the cops don't know about, something not recorded in the history books…" He slammed shut his computer. "The more I look into this, the more I think about it, the less I think it's tied to the cabin."

Dean kept his voice level. "Is there anything about this guy you saw that might give us some clue who he is?"

"No." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing that'll help put a name to the face." He turned to his brother. "With my other visions I always got something that told me where to start looking – with Max Miller it was the Michigan license plate, with the poltergeist at our old house it was the tree in the front yard – but with this, there's nothing."

Dean tapped his fist against the steering wheel, "Except a guy who's getting impatient to take his revenge and someone who wants to stop him."

Sam shook his head. "I'm missing something. I must be."

Dean glanced over at his brother. "Look, if the cabin's not a factor and you get the medical all clear today, I say we go see Bobby. Bounce things off him, see what we get."

"Yeah, sure." Sam snorted. "Maybe Bobby's got a book on hypnosis or something and we can give that a try."

Dean grinned. "Now there's a thought. I could have fun with a few post-hypnotic suggestions." He knew the bitchface he was getting without even turning his head. "Just hang in there, okay? We'll figure this out."

"How?"

Dean grin softened. "Dunno. But we always do, right?"

xxxXXXxxx

It was late morning when Dean pulled the Impala into the Stanford Medical Centre parking garage. Doc had scheduled a battery of tests and consultations with Sam's surgeon and therapist which, collectively, chewed up most of the day, wrapping up mid-afternoon.

At that point Doc, with Sam in tow, returned to her office. Pushing open the door to her exam room, she smiled up at Sam. "Would you like the pleasure?"

He grinned. "Definitely."

Dean had fallen asleep on the narrow exam table. Sam walked up to his brother and banged his fist against the bottom on Dean's boot. "Hey."

Dean startled awake. As he jumped, the paper cover on the exam table shifted and he rolled off the edge. Only a quick grab from Sam prevented him from ending up on the floor. Breathing heavily, hanging on tightly to Sam's jacket, he met his brother's wide grin with a scowl as he sat up. "Oh that was f-" Dean caught sight of Doc, perched against the counter, watching the two of them bemusedly, "…reaking hilarious."

He pulled his shirt straight as he swung his legs off the table. His scowl softened as he stared at Sam. "So?"

Sam eased himself down onto the stool beside the examination table, rubbing his injured leg distractedly. "I'm fed up with being poked and prodded, strapped inside one machine and shoved under another…" He turned toward Doc. "No offence, but today really sucked."

Dean relaxed slightly at Sam's grousing, knowing it was a sign there was nothing serious to complain about. "Did they run out of lollipops, Sammy?"

Sam glared at his brother. "Now who's being hilarious?"

Dean just grinned, turning to Doc. "Seriously, he's good?"

Doc folded her arms as she looked over at Sam. "Physically, he's fine. Ahead of the curve as far as his rehab goes. Neurologically, there's no physical damage from yesterday's incident."

Dean's grin faded. "So what caused it?"

Doc looked up at Dean. "Long story short, if we were dealing strictly with medical issues, I don't believe yesterday's incident would have happened."

Dean pushed himself off the exam table. "So his visions are definitely behind this?"

Doc nodded. "I'd say so. Although it doesn't make the potential for physical damage any less real. If you hadn't been there yesterday-"

"I know." Dean stared as Sam. "So, I guess the specialist you need to see next is Dr. Bobby Singer." As his brother nodded, Dean looked over at Doc. "Any changes to his therapy or medication I should know about?"

"Dude." Sam sounded mildly annoyed. "I got it covered. " He tapped his jacket pocket. "New prescriptions, updated therapy regimen. I'm all set."

Doc bit back a smile. "Cut your brother some slack, Sam. He's just worried." She looked fondly at Dean. "You know as well as I do that inside that crusty shell, he's mush."

"Hey." Dean feigned annoyance as he tapped his abs. "There is nothing mush about me. All muscle." He crossed the room, punching his brother playfully in the shoulder. "If you're all set, let's go. We can make it back to the cabin before dark, and then we'll head out for South Dakota first thing in the morning."

Sam nodded. Pushing himself off the stool, he walked over to Doc and enveloped her in a warm hug. "Thanks, Doc; for everything." He grinned down at her. "Even today, and it really did suck."

Doc returned the hug. "I'm here if you need anything, And don't be a stranger. Once in a while I'd like to see you two when it doesn't involve patching you back together." She stepped back. "And, if you get tired of my company, you have no shortage of potential dates around here." Doc laughed at Sam's puzzled expression. "I've lost track of the number of nurses who've asked me about my _cousin_ since you started coming here for treatment."

Sam shook his head, a slight blush visible through his tan. Dean snorted as he gave his brother a soft one-two punch in the chest. "The Incredible Hunk strikes again, huh?" He winked at Doc. "But they asked about me too, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean persisted. "Right?"

Sam dropped his chin to his chest and groaned. "Doc, please. Tell him yes, otherwise I'm gonna hear about this all the way to South Dakota."

Doc shook her head. "Dean, come on. How could anyone overlook you?"

Dean's grin widened. "I knew it." He leaned in toward Doc, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You get any phone numbers?"

Doc fought to keep a straight face. "You know, I was going to write them down, but my pen ran out."

Dean's eyebrow quirked. "I gotta get you more pens." His expression turned serious as he straightened up. "Like Sammy said, thanks…you went above and beyond for us on this one."

"No thanks necessary." Doc smiled. "But you're welcome."

Dean cleared his throat, nodded, then turned to Sam. "Come on. Let's hit the road." He turned back and winked at Doc just before he pulled the door closed. "Two pens – at all times. And a notebook."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean pulled a handful of change from his pocket, counted out four quarters and fed them quickly into the coin slot of the soft drink machine. With the side of his fist, he punched the button for cola and listened distractedly as the vending machine mechanism rattled and hummed before dropping the can into the slot below.

He fed four more quarters into the machine, shoved the rest of the change back into his pocket, and then reached down for the first can of soda. It was icy cold; he closed his eyes, breathed out heavily and rolled the can across his forehead, relishing the feel of cool metal against his hot skin.

It had been two days since they left the luxury of the Ellisons' cabin for the threadbare carpet and broken down air conditioner of their current digs.

So far at least, Sam had experienced no more visions, heard no more mysterious whispers and the brothers were getting back to the familiar routine of the day spent on the road and each night in a different motel. The biggest change was the shorter distances covered each day, with Dean insisting they stop early enough to get in Sam's daily therapy session before he got too tired.

The first night they had lucked out, driving into a town that featured a little mom and pop motel that boasted an outdoor pool. On this day, there was no such luck. A heat wave had rolled into town with them and, not only did the only motel not have a pool, but all the rooms with working air conditioners were occupied. The motel owner had provided a fan but it did little more than move around the stifling air.

On a food run, Dean had discovered a small, hole-in-the-wall boxing gym. It offered only basic workout equipment but it was air conditioned and the owner had been more than welcoming when he heard Sam was recovering from injury. Some weight work, some stretching and a little sparring to work off their frustrations had felt great, at least until they returned to their stuffy room. Dean had showered quickly then made the run to the motel's soda machine while Sam took his shower.

Now, with the workout taken care of, Dean was looking forward to a trip to a local bar they'd driven past on the way back from the gym. It promised cold beer on tap, hot bartenders and the best burger in the state – pretty much Dean's idea of Heaven. And if the ladies were as hot as promised, he hoped to line up some physical therapy of his own as an added bonus. He grabbed the second can of soda from the machine and headed back to their room.

Dean frowned as he pushed open the motel room door; no water was running. "Get a move on, Sam. It's too damn hot to-"

The teasing barb cut off when Dean realized his brother was lying on the floor. From the doorway only Sam's long legs were visible, sticking out between the motel room's two beds. "Sam?"

Dean's heart began racing when there was no answer. He threw the cans of soda onto a chair to the right of the door and moved quickly to the bottom of the beds. Sam lay sprawled on his stomach, eyes closed, one arm folded awkwardly under him, the other splayed out to the side. He was out cold.

Dean shoved one bed out of the way so he could crouch down beside his brother. He pressed his fingers into the side of Sam's neck, exhaling loudly in relief when he felt a strong pulse thumping rapidly. "Damn it, Sammy."

Dean gently rolled his brother over, frowning at the goose egg on Sam's left temple. He'd hit his head on something, likely the nightstand, but what the hell had caused him to fall?

Sam groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

Dean smiled worriedly. "That's it. Wakey-wakey."

Sam's eyes stilled but remained closed. Dean's smile disappeared. "Come on, Sam. Snap out of it."

Dean frowned when he realized Sam was trembling. He rested his hand on his brother's shoulder and could feel the tremors racking his body, feel his arms start to twitch as the tremors picked up in intensity. His eyes widened as Sam began to slam his head uncontrollably against the floor as the tremors became a full-blown seizure.

Dean quickly rolled his brother onto his side, grabbed a pillow from the bed and slid it under Sam's head to protect him from further injury as he continued to slam his head against the floor.

Dean kept his right hand on his brother as his left snaked up onto the nightstand in search of his cellphone. He knew a vision has likely spurred this latest attack but, as he dialed 911 and waited for the answer, Doc's words spun through his head: '…_doesn't make the potential for physical damage any less real._'

"_911. What's the nature of your emergency?"_ The female voice was coolly professional.

"My brother. He fell. Hit his head. He's having a seizure."

"_Is he breathing?"_

"Yes."

"_Okay, I need you to roll him on his side, keep his airway clear, make-"_

Dean interrupted. "Lady, no offence, but I know the first-aid basics. I need my brother in a hospital. Now."

The operator's voice remained calm. _"Sir, I'm dispatching an ambulance right away. I just-"_

Sam suddenly stilled beneath Dean's hand. "Wait, it's stopped. It's over."

"_Is he still breathing?"_

Dean placed his fingers again on Sam's neck, feeling the rapid beat of a pulse beneath them. His eyes traveled to Sam's chest; it was rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Dean held his hand in front of his brother's mouth; warm breath ghosted across his skin in short, sharp bursts. "Yeah, he's breathing. His pulse feels like he's just run the 100 meters."

"_Sir, does your brother have a history of seizures?"_

"No." Dean stared down at Sam. "I mean, he had one three days ago but, before that, no. There's no history.

"_How old is he?"_

"Twenty-three."

"_Has he had a head injury recently?"_

Dean nodded out of habit. "Four months ago he had a concussion. He fell, out in the woods. Nothing since, though."

"_Is he on any medication?"_

"He has painkillers from recent knee surgery, but hasn't taken any today."

"_Okay, sir, we're showing you're calling from a cellphone. Can you confirm your location?"_

"Rest Easy Motel on Main Street. Room 12."

"_The ambulance will be there in about five minutes. Just keep your brother warm and still. Watch his breathing. If he looks like he's going to be sick-"_

"I know, I know…" Dean's worry was quickly eating up his short supply of patience. "Just _hurry_."

Dean clicked the phone shut and tossed it back on the nightstand. Despite the heat in the room, Sam was shivering. Dean reached up and pulled the bedspread onto the floor and covered his brother.

He pushed himself to his feet, crossed the room to the bathroom, grabbed a facecloth and then hurried back to Sam, stopping to pick up one of the cans of soda. Wrapping the can in the facecloth, he again knelt down beside Sam and held the makeshift icepack against the welt on his brother's head.

Sam groaned, his eyes opening slowly. He blinked in confusion.

"Sammy?"

Sam screwed his eyes closed, wincing in obvious pain. "Yeah?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You feel sick?"

Sam shook his head, but the color draining rapidly from his face said otherwise.

"You sure?"

Sam swallowed, his face relaxing as the wave of nausea subsided. He nodded weakly.

Dean exhaled loudly. "You scared me, Sammy. What the hell happened?"

Sam frowned again. "What?"

Dean matched his frown. "Okay, back to basics. Full name?"

"What?" Sam blinked and swallowed, fighting to focus on his brother.

Dean tried again. "What's your name?"

Sam coughed. "Quit screwin' around."

Dean's voice was insistent. "I'm serious. I'm gonna keep asking until you give me an answer. The right answer. Now, what's your name?"

Sam sighed. "Sam. Sam Winchester. Happy?"

Dean's frown remained. "No, I'm not happy. I walk in the room and find you out cold on the floor with a lump the size of Texas on the side of your head. What's to be happy about?"

Sam looked confused and was shivering again. "I think I fell."

Dean's eyes widened incredulously. "Oh, no shit, Sherlock. That much I figured out. Was it another vision?"

Sam looked surprised, then shook his head slowly. "I…I dunno." He tried to push himself up but, like at the pool, his limbs seemed strangely uncooperative. "Help me up."

Dean shook his head. "No. You're stayin' right where you are until the paramedics get here."

"What?" Sam glared at his brother, then screwed his eyes closed. "No. No hospital. Doc said-"

"…that just because visions are the cause doesn't mean there are no physical effects." The furrow in Dean's brow deepened. "You had another seizure, Sam."

Sam's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Dean nodded. "That was pretty much my response. So, relax – the paramedics will be here any minute. We'll get you to the hospital, make sure everything's okay."

"I was just at the hospital." Sam, his mind clearing, was again struggling to sit up. "They said I was fine."

Dean put a hand on Sam's chest, gently pushing him back down. "Well you're not. Your visions have never-"

A knock on the door cut him off. The door was pushed open and a dark-haired man in his early 30s stepped into the room. "Dave Murray, Dalton County Fire and Rescue. You called 911?"

Dean nodded, standing up. "My brother fell, hit his head. He had a seizure."

Dave crossed the room quickly to look down at Sam. "What's your brother's name?"

"Sam. My name's Sam." His annoyance at not being addressed directly was obvious.

Dave smiled. "Sorry, Sam." He knelt down, placing his med kit on the floor beside him before nodding at the older man who had followed him into the room. "This is my partner, Jim Davis. Do you remember what happened?"

Sam screwed his eyes closed. "Dean told you. I fell."

Dean helped Jim push the other bed further back, opening up more space around Sam. The paramedic then moved in beside him and he and Dave began assessing their patient.

Dean paced back and forth at the end of the beds as the two men treated his brother, listening to their questions and, more importantly, to Sam's answers. For the past two days, Sam had been fine – he looked healthy, strong, with no lingering effects from the incident at the pool. Now he looked tired and gray, worse than he did when he'd first been released from the hospital.

Dean frowned at the responses Sam was giving to the paramedics' questions. His speech was slurred, his words becoming increasingly unintelligible.

Dave turned to Dean. "Has your brother taken any drugs?"

The inference was clear. Dean glared at the paramedic. "If you mean anything recreational, no. He's recovering from knee surgery for a torn ACL so he has prescription anti-inflammatories and some Tylenol 3s but, as far as I know, he hasn't taken either today. He was feeling and acting fine until I found him out cold."

"Sorry, man. I have to ask." Dave gestured to Sam's legs. "Which knee did he have surgery on?"

"His right." Dean's eyebrow shot up. "You think that's connected to his seizure somehow?"

Dave shrugged as he grabbed a pair of scissors from his med kit and cut open Sam's sweatpants from cuff to mid-thigh, then cut off the support bandage and began to examine his knee. "I doubt it but the docs need all information available to them." He nodded. "The knee looks good – no swelling or infection. That at least--"

"Roll him. " Jim's voice cut him off. "He's seizing again."

Dean watched in complete shock as Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and his body began convulsing a second time. Jim held Sam's arm steady while Dave injected the contents of a syringe.

Dean's eyes locked on the needle. "What the hell's that?"

Dave was now checking Sam's airway to make sure it was clear. "It's an anti-convulsant. It should start to take effect…there we go."

Sam's tremors slowed, then ceased completely.

Jim looked over at Dean. "I need to go out and get the stretcher. Why don't you slide in here beside your brother? If he comes to, he'll likely be confused. Just reassure him, keep him calm, okay?"

Dean, barely able to process the latest series of events, nodded, dropping down beside Sam once the paramedic moved out of the way. A few seconds later, Sam began to stir.

"Sam."

Sam's eyes darted back and forth under closed eyelids.

"You in there?"

His brother's breathing was fast and labored.

"Sam, open your eyes."

As instructed, Sam's eyes flickered open.

Dean's smile barely masked his worry. Sam's breathing was escalating rapidly as panic seemed to wash over him. Dean gently grabbed Sam's face, turning it so they made eye contact. "Look at me. I need you to calm down."

But Sam just grew even more agitated. His eyes widened and his shallow breathing ramped up even further. He reached out and grabbed his brother's arm. "He's dead, Dean. I killed him."

_**To Be Continued…**_

_**A/N:**__ The action moves to a full boil in the next chapter, up Monday. This story was conceived, and much of it written, before Season 4 began. Any similarity to certain events of the past season (ie. Sam's seizures) is purely coincidental and in no way tied into them. This fic is firmly grounded in Season 2. I'd love to hear from you. Your comments are better than cookies. Thanks so much for reading. Cheers_


	3. Chapter 3

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N:** _Again, a great big thanks to everyone added this story to alerts and sent along reviews, comments and PMs – they're hugely appreciated. To Caitlin: I can't PM you, but THANK YOU! To the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – you rock! Thanks for the beta, the encouragement and the occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info. Hope you enjoy._

**CHAPTER 3**

Sam felt tired and stiff, his movements sluggish. The tension in his neck, shoulders and back suggested too much time behind the wheel, running on too much caffeine and far too little sleep.

He groaned as he pushed open the car door, the oppressive heat slamming into him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the sedan. He gripped the door frame as he pulled himself to his feet, frowning at the tightness in his chest. It was hard to breathe.

Coughing, he slammed the door closed, then walked slowly around the car and up the path that led to the front door of the neat Spanish-style bungalow. Carefully tended hedges framed the house, running the length of the property before turning to run parallel to the manicured fairway of the golf course behind the upscale development.

Sam was breathing heavily by the time he stepped into the shade of the covered porch, pulled off his sunglasses and pressed the doorbell.

He heard a male voice, muted by the heavy door between them, call out inside the house. "It's okay, Isabel. I've got it."

The voice was both strange and familiar. Sam tucked his sunglasses into the left breast pocket of his shirt as the ornate wooden door opened, revealing a slim man in his 60s. His hair was white and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

"Yes?"

Sam smiled. "Retirement agrees with you, Judge Matthews."

The judge frowned. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Sam's eyes stayed locked with the judge's. "You had a very big impact on my life. I just wanted to return the favor."

Judge Matthews had no chance to react before Sam plunged a knife into his chest.

The judge stared at Sam in shock before his eyes fell from the smiling stranger in front of him to the hilt of the hunting blade protruding from his chest. His shaking hand reached instinctively for the knife.

Sam's smile widened. "Here, let me help you with that."

He reached forward and, with a sharp tug, pulled out the knife. The judge swayed slightly as he stared incredulously at the blood stain blossoming across his chest and quickly soaking through his pale blue golf shirt.

Sam shifted his grip on the knife, then plunged the blade into the judge a second time, this time driving it straight through his heart.

Death came quickly. The judge slumped to his knees before toppling over onto his side, his eyes open and fixed in a glassy, unseeing stare.

Sam reached down and coolly pulled the knife from the man's chest. More blood spilled from the fatal wound, pooling on the ceramic tile beneath the dead man. Sam stared at the murder weapon, at the blood staining the blade and slowly running down the hilt onto his hand and wrist.

He frowned then crouched down, wiping the blade clean on the judge's khaki pants before slipping the knife back into the sheath on his right hip. He then pulled the judge's golf shirt loose from where it was tucked neatly into his waistband and used the hem to wipe the blood from his hands.

Sam's head snapped to the left at the sound of a woman's scream. She was small, her graying hair pulled into a twist at the nape of her neck. The 'Isabel' the judge had called out to, he guessed.

Sam smiled coldly as the woman stared in horror at the body of the judge lying on the floor in a growing pool of blood. She screamed again. Sam stood up and stepped over the body, carefully avoiding the blood and reaching again for the knife.

"_Sam_!"

At the sound of his name, a sharp pain ripped through his head.

"_Sam. You in there_?"

He stumbled as pain hit him again, clutching the side of his head and blinking rapidly as his vision blurred and the room around him began to twist and skew. A tightening band of pressure around his chest made it increasingly harder to breathe.

"_Sam! Look at me_."

The knife fell from his hand, clattering against the ceramic floor. Sam dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at his head. He screwed his eyes closed and felt himself falling.

"_Sam!"_

His eyes snapped open. As they focused, he realized he was back in their motel room, lying on the floor and Dean was hovering over him, his face a mix of fear and worry.

"Look at me, Sam. I need you to calm down."

But Sam did anything but. His eyes widened and his rapid, shallow breathing escalated even further. He reached out and grabbed his brother's arm. "He's dead, Dean. I killed him."

Dean startled at his brother's admission. The reaction was mirrored in the face of the man at his side, but Sam wasn't done.

The words tumbled out, tripping over themselves in his confused panic. "It…it was me. I stabbed him. I was the killer."

"Sam, hey!" Dean forced a smile, gently pushing down on Sam's chest as he struggled to sit up. "Lie still. I need you to chill. You hear me?" He motioned with his head toward the man beside him, who was listening intently to the conversation. "You had a seizure. Dave, here, is a paramedic. He's gonna take care of you. _Video games_ will have to wait."

"What?" Sam stilled in Dean's hold, his eyes darting between his brother and the paramedic as he tried to figure out what Dean was telling him. "Video games?" Sam's rapid gasps to draw in air were still escalating. "No…I…"

"Seriously, Sam…relax." Dean turned to the paramedic. "He got addicted to Hunter-Killer 3 while laid up after surgery. As of right now, he's officially cut off."

"Sam." This time it was the paramedic's voice. "You're hyperventilating. I need you to concentrate on your breathing and slow it down, okay?"

Sam's eyes widened in panic as Dave leaned in to fasten an oxygen mask over his face. He batted it away reflexively, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

The paramedic glanced at Dean. "We need to get his breathing under control."

"Sam. Look at me." Dean's voice was calm, steady. "Dave is just trying to help. You're gonna pass out if you don't chill. Now let him help you." He glanced over at Dave and nodded.

The paramedic reached forward again with the mask, placing it over Sam's mouth and nose and fastening the strap around his head. He quickly turned to the side to adjust the flow on the oxygen tank, then looked down at Sam. "Okay. Now concentrate. Breathe nice and slow. Follow me - in...and out...in..."

Sam tightened his hold on Dean's arm, watched Dave and tried to mimic the rhythm of his breathing. The plastic bag attached to the mask expanded with each exhale, the expansions growing further apart as Sam's breathing gradually slowed and became deeper.

As Sam's respiration returned to normal, Dave used a stethoscope to listen to his lungs, then nodded favorably. "That's better." He smiled as he removed the mask. "I've played Hunter-Killer 3 with my brother-in-law. It's easy to get hooked. Who's better, you or your brother?"

Sam swallowed as his eyes jumped from Dean to the paramedic and back again. "Dean cheats…'specially when…I'm the killer."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief that Sam had picked up on the cover story, flimsy as it was. "It's not cheating, Sam – it's strategy."

His smile was a paper-thin mask over the worry gnawing away at him. Every instinct told him to grab Sam, throw him in the Impala and hightail it the hell out of there. Confessing to a murder in front of a complete stranger was never good ; but with the FBI gunning for you it was also an open invitation to unwanted attention.

Dean glanced again at the paramedic, who was busy treating his brother. Dave seemed to buy the video game story, but he also seemed smart enough not to give himself away if he thought he was sitting beside a killer and his accomplice.

Sam's words kept echoing through Dean's head. _"He's dead. I killed him."_ They obviously had another vision to deal with, with more details than the last one given Sam's outburst, but why the hell would he think he was the killer?

Sam closed his eyes and licked his lips. "M'thirsty."

Dean squeezed his brother's shoulder as he glanced over at Dave. "Is it okay to give him some water?"

Dave nodded. "Just a little. And take it slow, Sam, okay?"

Dean pushed himself up, grabbed a bottle of water from the dresser, and returned to Sam's side. He and the paramedic helped Sam sit up, and Dean steadied the bottle as Sam took a drink. Sam still looked pale and tired, but at least now his skin had lost the gray tinge from just after the seizure hit. "Better?"

Sam nodded sluggishly.

Dean frowned. He and Dave were holding Sam up and he was slumping heavily against them. "How you doin' in there?"

Sam's eyes were drooping shut as he turned to look at Dean. "Tired. Head hurts."

Dave helped Dean lower Sam back down so his head was resting on the pillow on the floor. "That's pretty typical after a seizure, not to mention the whack on the head you seem to have given yourself. I'm gonna start an IV, then we'll get you loaded up for the trip to the hospital. See if we can figure out what's going on, okay?"

Sam nodded, but his bleary eyes stayed on Dean, whose jaw clenched noticeably. Both wanted, needed, to talk about what the hell was going on, but talk would have to wait.

Dean glanced down to where Sam's hand retained a firm grip on his arm. "It'll be okay, Sammy. Let's get you seen to first, make sure everything's good. We'll take care of everything else later."

Sam nodded, tightly holding on to both his brother's arm and the assurance he offered.

Jim returned with the gurney and Dean moved out of the way, scrubbing a hand over his face as he watched the two paramedics pick up his brother and place him on the stretcher, cover him with a blanket then arrange the medical equipment around him.

Sam was barely awake as the gurney was pushed out of the room and toward the waiting ambulance.

Dave looked back at Dean. "You riding with us? There's room in the back."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Just let me grab his medical records from the car and I'll be right with you." He shrugged at Dave's raised eyebrows. "We're on the road a lot. Anything we might need comes with us."

He turned back into the room, grabbed Sam's computer bag, and then closed the door before walking over to the Impala. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out Sam's medical file. Thanks to Doc, it was completely updated with every test and procedure from Stanford, all in the name of Sam Page, which matched their current health insurance. He slammed the trunk shut then moved quickly to the waiting ambulance, climbing in the back to sit beside Dave. Sam's eyes were closed and Dean shot a worried glance at the paramedic.

Dave smiled. "Relax. He's just sleeping. Best thing for him right now."

Dean nodded as Jim closed the doors behind him before moving around to the driver's seat, turning the ignition and steering the ambulance to the nearby hospital.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam slowly peeled open his eyes, blinking to bring the room in focus. He was in the ER, lying on a narrow gurney and covered with a pale green blanket. His left hand, resting on his chest, had an IV taped to the back of it, the tubing snaking through the safety rails of the gurney and to the IV pole to the left of his head.

His head was pounding and his mouth felt dry and pasty, like he'd been out of it for a while – a fact confirmed when he realized he was wearing a hospital gown; the last time he'd come to in this room he was still wearing his own clothes. There had also been a crowd of strange faces around him, barking medical terms at each other and peppering him with questions. Now there was no one. The room was silent, save for a quiet tapping sound. Sam glanced around, his gaze settling on a familiar figure in the corner, seated on a stool and steadily punching keys on the laptop set up on the counter beside him.

"Dean." Sam's voice was hoarse, strained.

Dean's eyes snapped from the computer screen to his brother. He pushed himself off the stool and crossed quickly to Sam's side. "Hey. How's the head?"

"Okay." Sam squinted at Dean, the sterile light in the room amping up his headache. "How long was I out?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "It's been about five hours since we landed in the ER. You remember waking up just after we got here?"

Sam nodded tiredly.

"How 'bout during the trip upstairs for the MRI?"

Sam frowned and shook his head.

Dean smiled tightly. "Yeah, you seemed a little out of it that time."

Sam cleared his throat, glancing round the ER exam room. "But I'm okay now. You wanna get me my clothes so we can get outta here."

Dean tapped the safety rail of the gurney as he shook his head. "They're admitting you, remember? The doc is trying to line up a room so he can run more tests in the morning. They want…"

"No."

Dean's eyebrows arched. "No?"

Sam struggled to sit up. "I'm not staying, Dean. Whatever's wrong with me, it's not physical. Or at least it's not caused by anything physical, so no tests are gonna fix it. Just get me my clothes."

"They cut your sweat pants off you, Sam. Why don't you just…"

Sam was rattling the safety rail in annoyance as he tried to lower it. "Then get me my jeans out of the car."

Dean shook his head. "Besides, car's back at the motel. I came here in the ambulance with you."

"I don't care if I have to walk down the street in this hospital gown. I'm not staying here, so– "

"Sam, stop!" Fear and worry mixed equally in Dean's voice. He banged the safety rail with the side of his fist. "I find you out cold on the floor, I watch you have two seizures – and then you wake up and confess to killing someone. I know a vision's behind this but it's ripping you apart, man. We can't just ignore that."

Sam swallowed, concentrating to keep his voice level. "Hospital tests won't figure this out. You and I can. And the sooner we get outta here, the sooner we can start."

Dean blew out a breath to calm himself down. "We hear what the doc says first. Now, what the hell did this vision show you?"

Sam tensed at he memory. "I…I stabbed a man to death."

"_You _stabbed him?"

Sam nodded curtly.

"Self-defense?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I just smiled at him and stabbed him."

Dean was pacing now at the side of the gurney. "Well, something's off because you're no killer."

Sam snorted. "We kill things all the time."

Dean scowled at his brother. "Things, Sam – not people."

Sam's voice dropped noticeably as he stared at the IV in the back of his hand, picking at the tape that held it in place. "Tell that to Steve Wandell."

"Oh for f…!" Dean stopped pacing and glared at his brother. "First, that was Meg, not you. Second, you haven't been out of my sight. If you're supposed to kill someone, and that's a big if, it hasn't happened yet.Now, tell me what happened."

Sam swallowed. "I walked up to the front door of a house and rang the bell. A man answered and…I stabbed him." He looked up at Dean, his throat closing around his words. "Then I pulled the knife from his chest and stabbed him again – right through the heart."

Dean's face was stony. "Your vision showed _you_ killing him."

Sam shook his head. "I was the killer. I was seeing everything like I was doing it."

"No. Something's off." Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on the gurney rail. "You still remember all the vision?"

Sam nodded. "Every sickening second."

"Okay. Close your eyes."

"What for?"

"Because you killing someone makes no sense. There's gotta be some clue in that vision to what's really going on. Now, close your eyes and replay it in slow motion."

Sam dropped his head back on the gurney, closed his eyes and exhaled.

Dean's voice was a low monotone. "Don't get caught up in what you're doing. Look around you for any details that'll tell us who the victim is, where the murder takes place, anything that'll help us figure this out."

Sam felt sick as he relived the vision at half speed. He watched himself plunge the knife into the judge's chest, pull it out and stab him again. He saw the judge fall, eyes open and vacant, he saw himself wipe off the knife and his bloody hands.

His eyes snapped open. "They're not my hands."

Dean's expression didn't change. "Because…"

Sam stared down at his hands. "They're too small and I'm…the killer…is wearing a wedding ring."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face. "Told you it wasn't you."

The wave of relief that washed over Sam was fleeting. "Then why am I seeing the murder through his eyes? Why are these visions hitting so hard? Why-"

"Whoa, whoa." Dean grabbed the stool, rolled it to the side of Sam's gurney and sat down. "You thought you'd killed someone and now you know you didn't. That's huge. For everything else, let's go one step at a time. What about the victim? You recognize him?"

Sam again closed his eyes, picturing the man's face. "No, but the killer did. The victim was a judge....He called him…Judge Matthews."

Dean pushed the stool away from the gurney and toward Sam's laptop on the counter at the side of the exam room. "You get a first name?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but I think his wife's name is Isabel." Sam suddenly felt sick. "God, Dean, I think she may be dead, too. I…the killer…was going after her with a knife when I…when I snapped out of it."

Dean looked over at his brother. "It's a vision. As far as we know, no one's dead yet."

"Yeah, but–"

"Don't hijack trouble, Sammy. There'll be plenty to go around when we've got the facts lined up in front of us." Dean turned back to the laptop and punched a few more keys. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he waited for the requested information to appear, then frowned when it popped up on screen. "Well, according to your trusty Law Society database, there are 497 Judge Matthews currently doling out justice in the continental U.S. of A." He turned back toward Sam. "You got anything we can use to narrow it down?"

Sam's brow furrowed as he sifted through his memory for any useful details. "I said to him, 'Retirement agrees with you' so he's not practising any more. And his house is on a golf course."

Dean's eyebrow quirked. "A retired judge who lives on a golf course? That should _really_ cut down the list."

Sam screwed his eyes closed again to try to push back the headache that was clouding his thinking. "Look, just find me some scrubs, anything, so we can get the hell out of here. Then…"

"Are we really that bad?" The new voice belonged to Dr. Chuck Reynolds, the physician who had been caring for Sam since he was admitted to the ER.

Sam turned to face the doctor. "No offence, doc, but I've had my fill of hospitals lately. I just want to go home."

The doctor moved to the side of Sam's gurney. "I'd rather you stay. Two seizures in that short period of time is nothing to take lightly. I'd like–"

"What did his tests show?" Dean interrupted before Sam could.

The doctor looked down at the large manila envelope in his hands. He pulled an oversized piece of film from it, walked to the side of the room and clipped it to a light box on the wall. He flipped a switch, turning on a light which illuminated the scan of Sam's head. Dr. Reynolds pulled a pen from his pocket and pointed to section of Sam's brain, just above his right ear. "There's some evidence of scar tissue here, probably from the earlier head injury your brother told us about."

Dr. Reynolds turned to face the brothers. "Scar tissue is thicker, denser than normal tissue. When the brain sends out a signal to the body, scar tissue makes it harder for the message to get through, causing a short-circuit if you will. That abnormal electrical activity can trigger a seizure."

Dean glanced at his brother as he took in the information. "So that's what happened with Sam? He short-circuited?"

The doctor dropped his pen back in his pocket, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's one way to put it. But it's also why we'd like to do more tests. If we-"

"No." Sam squared his shoulders stubbornly. "My doctor at Stanford, she knew about the scar tissue. If there was anything to worry about, she would have said something."

Dr. Reynolds folded his arms across his chest. "True. But the seizure you had at the pool the other day was, then, thought to be a one-time occurrence. Now we have three seizures within a week. That's-"

"No." Sam cut him off. "Sorry, doc. I'm not staying."

Dr. Reynolds looked surprised by Sam's emphatic response but, before he could say anything, Dean cut in.

"Has there been any change, any further deterioration, in his condition since the tests that were done at Stanford?"

The doctor's eyes widened further. "You mean other than the seizures?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Yes – other than that."

Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "While there's no overt damage, the seizures themselves are a symptom of–"

Dean interrupted again. "Does Doc – Dr. Caine – think these tests are necessary?"

Dr. Reynolds sighed as he glanced from Dean to Sam. "She told me I was likely in for a fight if I wanted to admit you and she definitely wants you back in her office when you get home to California." He walked up to the side of the gurney. "But, like I said, there's no further deterioration. Nothing has changed physically from the tests last week or last month. The scar tissue is noted on all your Stanford tests but was never flagged as a cause for alarm because seizures were never a factor before.

"Our job now is to figure out what's triggering the seizures. I still recommend that you let us admit you so we can figure out what the cause is, but," he raised his hand as he saw Sam about to object, "if you're more comfortable with Dr. Caine handling this, then I'll get you AMA papers and you can leave."

Sam nodded. "That's what I want."

Dr. Reynolds held up two fingers. "Two things, however, are non-negotiable until you've been properly diagnosed and cleared by Dr. Caine. First, no driving."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean barely lets me drive on a good day. What's the second?"

Dr. Reynolds turned to Dean. "I want him left alone as little as possible – at least for the next couple of weeks. If a seizure hits again, there's less chance of him hurting himself if someone's with him. And if he does have another seizure, seek medical attention right away. Just because there's no additional damage now, doesn't mean there won't be if this continues."

Dean nodded. "Not a problem, doc. I'll watch out for him. Always do." He glanced at Sam, and cleared his throat. "Listen, your ER crew went all Edward Scissorhands on my brother's sweatpants. Now, personally, I think some of your nurses would get a kick out of being mooned by him in that skimpy little gown, but Sammy's a little shy; any chance of rustling up something not quite so air-conditioned in the back?"

Sam quickly turned red behind the scowl he directed at Dean.

Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "Big brothers, huh? You got any more of these at home?"

Sam's eyes widened. "God no."

The doctor smiled. "Then consider yourself lucky. I've got three of them." He glanced at Dean before turning back to Sam. "I think we can spare a set of scrubs. I'll have a nurse bring them in while I get the papers ready. Probably take me an hour or so. In the mean time, just relax, let the painkillers in the IV do their job, then, unless you change your mind, you're free to go."

Sam nodded. "I won't, but thanks."

As the door swung closed behind the doctor, Dean turned to Sam, serious again. "You sure about this?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "Yeah. The best way I can think of to stop these seizures is to figure out who this killer is and why the hell he's in my head."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean glanced up from the laptop to check on Sam for what must have been the hundredth time since leaving the hospital.

His brother was sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in his pillow, socked feet hanging off the end of the bed. But the furrows in his forehead and the way his right hand clenched the bed cover beneath him suggested his sleep was anything but restful.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, a subconscious attempt to erase the worry lines he knew were etched there. He hated what was happening to Sam, hated even more he couldn't do anything to stop it.

After Sam was released from the ER, the brothers had taken a cab back to the motel and Dean had hurriedly packed the car. Between the first responders and the hospital, too many people knew where they were if someone caught sight of an FBI wanted poster or Dave the paramedic suddenly had second thoughts about Sam's 'confession' to murder.

They were well into the next state before Dean decided it was safe to stop for the night. The décor of their current motel room was little better than the last but, here, at least the air conditioner worked.

Sam had slept through most of the car ride, despite his determination to keep surfing the net until he found a full ID on Judge Matthews. At one point, Dean had pulled over onto the side of the road and pulled the laptop out from under Sam's hands, his brother sound asleep with his fingers still poised over the keys.

When Dean had parked in front of their current digs, Sam had woken up long enough to drag himself inside the room and turn down Dean's offer of something to eat, before flopping fully-clothed on the bed and falling right back to sleep. The doctors had warned Dean that he would likely sleep through much of the next 24 hours as his body recovered from the trauma of the seizure, but he still hated seeing Sam so still for so long. It didn't help either that he'd wrestled off Sam's jacket, outer shirt and boots without so much as a mumble of protest from his brother.

Dean sat at the small laminate table in front of the window, nursing a cup of coffee as he tapped away at the laptop trying to narrow down their search for the judge. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. They were dry and burning from staring at the screen too long. He was tired, damn tired if he was being honest, but he was still too wired to sleep.

There had been no seizures, no visions, no whispered voices since leaving the hospital, but Dean was still on edge. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam convulsing on the floor of the motel room or convulsing on the bottom of the pool.

Dean's eyes snapped again toward to his brother. The incident at the cabin and Sam's latest vision had both been preceded by convulsions. But what was the link between the voices and the apparition at the pool and the judge's murder? And why had the vision put Sam in the role of the murderer?

He glanced again at Sam, watched his brother's hand clench and unclench the blanket beneath him, then frowned when he realized Sam's eyes were darting back and forth behind closed lids. He stood up, walked over to the bed and reached down to place a hand on Sam's back. "Relax, Sammy. I told you…we'll figure this out."

Sam started at the touch but didn't wake. He shuffled slightly, then ground his face deeper into the pillow, his eyes now still.

Dean withdrew his hand, rubbing the back of his own neck in an attempt to ease away the tension. Moving back to the table and sitting down, he blinked slowly, as he stared again at the computer screen in front of him. "Judge Matthews – who the hell are you?"

He took a sip of his almost cold coffee then returned to surfing through news websites. Five minutes later, as he clicked open a new window, his eyes widened at the headline emblazoned across the screen. "Oh, fuck."

Sam's head jolted off his pillow at the sound of his brother's curse. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. "What's goin' on?"

Getting no response from Dean, whose eyes remained glued to the computer screen, Sam rolled onto his side, swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself up. He scratched his head and yawned as he glanced behind him at the bedside clock before turning to look incredulously at his brother. "Dude, it's five in the morning. You get any sleep?"

Dean sat back in his chair. "Never mind sleep. I've got an ID on the judge." He looked at Sam and his voice softened. "Judge Abner Matthews was stabbed to death late yesterday.

Sam looked like he was going to be sick. "Yesterday?"

"Yeah." Dean turned back to the computer. "According to the _Arizona Republic_ website, he was attacked in his home in Scottsdale – right around the time you had the seizure."

Sam pushed himself off the bed and limped over to his brother. Dean turned the laptop so Sam could see the screen. "This the guy from your vision?"

Sam leaned in to look at the photograph under the headline 'JUDGE MURDERED, KILLER SHOT DEAD'. It was an older photograph, showing the judge in his judicial robes.

"Yeah. That's him." Sam stared again at the headline, the furrows in his forehead deepening. His voice was barely audible. "What do they mean '_killer shot dead_'?'"

Dean glanced up at his brother as he turned the laptop back toward him and read aloud from the news report displayed on the screen.

SCOTTSDALE – _A_ _retired criminal court judge and his assailant are both dead following an unexplained confrontation late yesterday.  
__Judge Abner Matthews, 65, was fatally stabbed in the front entrance to his own home in the gated community of Arrowhead. His killer, Donald Chapman, 57, was shot to death moments later by a private security guard called to the scene by the judge's housekeeper, Isabel Stanton.  
S__tanton told police that Chapman arrived unannounced at the judge's home. She said the two men had a brief conversation but when she entered the front hall moments after Chapman arrived, he was crouching over Matthews's body, wiping his bloody hands on the judge's shirt.  
__ Sources close to the case say the two men were unknown to each other prior to yesterday's confrontation and no motive for the murder has yet been established.  
__Marty Forbes of ACP Security, which polices the gated community, arrived at the home less than two minutes after a frantic call from the housekeeper. She had been forced to hide in a downstairs bathroom when Chapman threatened her life.  
__In his statement to police, Forbes said Chapman was kicking in the bathroom door when he entered the house. Chapman ignored repeated orders to stop. When he broke through the door and moved to stab Stanton, Forbes shot him.  
__Chapman was rushed to Shea Medical Centre, where he was pronounced dead_.

Dean looked up from the screen. "There's more…neighbors shocked, speculation on motive…but nothing really useful to us."

Sam sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. "It happened just like in my vision."

Dean sat back in the chair. "Yeah. Except for the part where you were four states away at the time."

Sam blew out a breath and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Who the hell is Donald Chapman, and why would I see him commit murder – through his eyes?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, Sammy, but we're sure as hell gonna find out." His eyes narrowed as he took in Sam's tired features. "You still wanna go to Bobby's – or should we head for Scottsdale?"

There was no hesitation in Sam's answer. "We're goin' to Arizona."

"Okay then." Dean glanced at his watch. "Scottsdale's about 11 hours south of here. We head out now, we could be there by late afternoon, early evening. You gonna be okay in the car that long?"

Sam sat back and stretched, scowling at Dean. "I'll be fine, but what about you? You haven't slept. You can't drive 11 hours unless you let me take a turn and…"

"_No way_. Doctor's orders – you're _not_ driving." Dean stood up and paced in front of his brother. "I just need a quick shower, another cup of coffee then I'll be good to go." He stopped pacing and waved his hand at Sam. "Lie down."

Sam eyebrows arched incredulously. "What? No."

"You're not supposed to be left alone." Dean walked over to his duffel, ferreting out some clean clothes. He paused when he realized Sam was staring at him expectantly. "If you lie on the bed, hopefully you won't hurt yourself in the five minutes I'm in the shower."

Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "No."

"Sam." Dean's voice dropped an octave. "You need-"

"I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself."

Dean took a step toward his brother, eyes flashing with worried anger. "I've noticed – oh, except for the part where you almost drowned, knocked yourself out and publicly confessed to a murder you didn't commit. Am I missing anything?"

Sam bit back his retort when he saw his brother's eyes flash. Dean was tired, tense, spoiling for a fight, and Sam knew it. He held up his hands in surrender.

"Whatever." Sam pulled his legs up onto the bed, lay back, nestled his head into the pillow then crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. "This mother hen routine is gonna wear thin real fast."

Dean waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, well sucks to be you. Deal with it."

The shower started running almost as soon as Dean disappeared inside the bathroom.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam sighed and rolled onto his side, staring at the laptop on the table beside the bed. He needed to read that news article, see if there was something else, something that might…

Pain flared suddenly behind his right eye. Agitated whispers again filled his head, multiple voices, each battling to be heard. Sam screwed his eyes closed, turning his face into the pillow and slamming the heel of his hand into his temple. A lone voice cut through the din, soft but clear. "_Help me_."

The pain then disappeared as quickly as it hit, silencing the whispers. Sam forced open his eyes, breathing heavily.

He glanced at the bathroom door. "De-" His brother's name was cut off when intense pain again stole his breath. This time though the pain was in his lower back. He bit his lip, driving his face further into the pillow but unable to completely stifle a loud gasp. Again, the pain dissipated quickly.

Sam swallowed, his heart pounding viciously. He shivered as the temperature in the room dropped suddenly.

"S_o arrogant, so sure he'd won…but I'm patient." _The voice was clearer, louder than it had been before. "_He'll never see this coming_."

Sam rolled onto his back and pushed himself up onto his elbows. Still breathing heavily, his eyes darted around the room. It was empty.

But it seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the sound of Dean's shower faded away until the only sound Sam was aware of was his own breathing.

"_You again_…" The voice now sounded surprised.

Sam jumped, head snapping to the right when movement caught his eye. A man stared back at him from the far side of the room – and then he was gone, blinking in and out in a heartbeat. Sam's eyes widened in shock; it was the same man he'd seen at the pool in the Ellisons' cabin.

Heart rate escalating rapidly, he tried to push himself up but fell back on his pillow when pain again exploded inside his head.

"Stop." The plea was barely audible, muffled behind gritted teeth as Sam grabbed his head in his hands.

The stranger's voice again filled his head. "_You're different than the others._ _Harder to control_ …" He laughed softly, coldly, "_…but not impossible_."

Sam writhed against the pain inside his head, against the quiet laughter that echoed long after the threat faded away.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean felt the tension in his shoulders melt away as the hot water pounded down on him and knew immediately the shower had been a mistake. He couldn't afford to relax. Not now. He had an 11-hour drive ahead of him, and needed to watch out for Sam until they could figure out his latest vision. He needed to stay awake, stay sharp. Sleep was a luxury that would have to wait.

With a sigh, he reached for the tap and turned off the hot water. He shuddered as the massaging warmth of the water morphed into stinging needles, quickly jarring him awake. He turned to let the cold water play against his chest, gasping as it stole his breath. He bent forward, letting the icy spray pound against his head, then turned around, allowing the water to pummel his shoulders and back. His teeth were chattering when he shut off the tap but the cold water had done its job. He felt more awake; another cup of coffee and he'd be good to go.

Dean pushed aside the curtain and grabbed the towel he had thrown onto the vanity, rubbing the water from his face as he stepped out of the tub.

"Hey, Sam: you still in one piece?" He rolled his eyes, anticipating a smartass reply from the other side of the door. None came. "Sam?"

Wrapping the towel around his hips, Dean snatched open the bathroom door and stared out into the motel room. His eyes widened at the sight of his brother. "Sammy!"

Sam was still lying on the bed where he'd left him five minutes earlier but now he was writhing in pain, his arm wrapped protectively around his head.

Dean moved quickly to the side of the bed, crouched down beside his brother and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Sammy?" Dean pulled Sam's arm away from his head, his frown deepening at the pain etched into his brother's face. "Talk to me."

Sam's eyes stayed closed and his words were spat out through clenched teeth. "The voice…it's back."

Dean's eyes flashed, anger burning through the worry. "What the hell …?" He tightened his hold on Sam's arms, subconsciously trying to siphon off his brother's pain.

Slowly, Sam relaxed, blowing out a long, shuddering breath. He swallowed, then slammed his fist onto the bed in a release of pent-up anger. He peeled open his eyes and nodded at Dean. "It's okay. M'okay."

Dean's eyebrow peaked disbelievingly. Sam offered a wan smile. "Really, I'm good."

Dean didn't budge.

Sam swallowed again and allowed his eyes to slide closed. "Okay Maybe 'good's' too strong a word. Just, um, give me a minute."

Dean released his hold on Sam, pushed himself up and sat back on his own bed, facing his brother. "What did it say this time?"

Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I think he's gonna kill someone else."

"The killer's dead, Sam."

Sam shuffled uncomfortably. "I know. But it was the same voice. And he spoke in the present tense that someone will '_never see it coming_.'"

Dean rubbed a hand across his neck. "Oh this just gets better and better." He scowled across at his brother. "What else?"

"That his victim was arrogant, sure he'd won, whatever that means. And, um…" Sam looked away from Dean. "He…"

"Spit it out, Sam." Worry sharpened Dean's tone.

"He said I was different than the others." Sam spoke slowly, carefully as he wrestled with the implications of what the voice had said. "Harder to control…but not impossible."

Dean's stomach lurched. "He's trying to control you? How?"

"Damned if I know." Sam rolled onto his back. "And I saw him again."

Dean froze. "What?"

Sam waved his hand at the corner of the room. "Over there – just for a fraction of a second."

Dean stood slowly, kneading the growing knot of tension at the base of his neck. "Damn it, Sam." A quick glance around the room told him the salt lines and protection symbols were all intact. "First the cabin, now the room – how the hell's it reaching out to you, whatever it is?"

Sam pushed himself up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and shaking his head. "I heard the other voice, too. He just said, 'Help me.'"

"With what?"

Sam frowned. "Dunno. But I don't sense a threat from him. Not like-" His gaze slid back to the corner of the room.

Dean studied his brother. "Just now, you were in pain but…it didn't look like a seizure."

Sam shrugged. "I just felt this white-hot pain in my head and then my back right before I saw him."

Dean stopped pacing. "Your back?"

Sam nodded.

Dean scowled. "You didn't mention back pain to Doc, or at the hospital."

"Didn't feel it before." Sam shook his head. "It's the same kind of headache each time, but before it came with a pressure in my chest, like not being able to breathe, you know?"

"Drowning will do that…so will hyperventilating." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "What about now? How you feeling?"

Sam pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed. "Pain hit hard and fast, but it's gone now. I'm okay."

Dean's eyes narrowed, far from convinced his brother was telling the whole truth. "Sam?"

Sam sighed, recognizing all too well the numerous worries layered within that single word. "I'm tired, I have a headache, but I'm okay."

Dean moved quickly to the bottom of his bed. Grabbing the clean shirt he'd pulled from his duffel earlier, he pulled it over his head.

"Fine. Pack your crap. I wanna be on the road in five minutes. The sooner we get to Scottsdale, the sooner we can start to figure out what's going on and get that spirit, or whatever it is, the hell out of your head."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam again put the travel time to good use, using his laptop and his cellphone to dig up more information on both the victim, Judge Abner Matthews, and his killer, Donald Chapman.

"Thanks Officer. You've been a big help." Sam clicked his phone closed and looked over at Dean. "Okay, so from all accounts Judge Matthews had a stellar career as a prosecutor in California before being called to the bench in 1985. He presided over some pretty high-profile criminal cases, including some precedent-setting ones. Hell, I probably covered some of his decisions when I was at school."

Dean glanced over at Sam then took a sip of the coffee they'd picked up during a gas stop 20 minutes earlier. "Criminal cases, huh? That means he pissed off a lot of bad guys who might want revenge."

Sam nodded. "But Donald Chapman doesn't seem like one of them." He glanced at the notes he had taken while talking to the Scottsdale police. "He's a plumber from Idaho. A wife, two kids, three grandkids. No criminal record. Other than a couple of unpaid parking tickets, there's nothing out of the ordinary. The family told the cops he was fighting lung cancer, doing really well and then just upped and disappeared. They filed a missing persons report three days before he showed up in Scottsdale and stabbed Judge Matthews.

Dean frowned. "And there's no prior connection between Chapman and the judge?"

"No, just like the newspaper speculated." Sam reached over the seat to put his laptop in the back. "The cops weren't just being vague with the media – they can't find a connection between the two men."

"Well I highly doubt a plumber with no criminal record just woke up one morning, drove halfway across the country and murdered a judge he'd never met for no reason." Dean glanced again at Sam. "Option Number One: Chapman was possessed."

Sam shook his head. "No. Security guard shot him with an ordinary bullet and he went down. No reports of black eyes or strange black smoke."

Dean took another sip of his coffee. "Option 2: Shapeshifter."

Sam shrugged. "Possible. But why would a shifter take the form of someone in Idaho then travel halfway across the country to murder a judge?"

"Damned if I know." Dean tapped the steering wheel. "Option 3: California has the death penalty: Possession by pissed-of spirit of someone he sent to the gas chamber." He scowled at the flaw in that possibility. "But how would the spirit get from California into an Idaho plumber?"

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I can check to see if any executed prisoners were sent back home to Idaho for burial but I'd say that's a long shot. And none of those options explain why any of this is linked to me."

"Damn." Dean stifled a yawn. "What about the judge's housekeeper? Didn't sound like you got much from her."

Sam shook his head. "No, that was her sister I was talking to. She said Isabel was resting but would be more than happy to meet with us in the morning. Hopefully she'll give us something that'll tell us what it is."

Dean glanced down at his watch. They were still about two hours from Scottsdale. "That'll give us chance to rest up, then you can work your charm on the old ladies and…"

Sam gasped in pain and Dean's head snapped back toward his brother in time to see him screw his eyes closed and drive the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "Sammy?"

Dean heard Sam's sharp intake of breath before his brother stiffened and pitched forward, the tremors racking his body escalating rapidly as he was caught in the throes of another seizure.

"Shit…" Dean had the steering wheel in his left hand, the cup of coffee in his right. The coffee was the first thing to go; he dropped the still half-full cup at his feet and slammed his right hand against Sam's chest to stop his pitch forward. But as Dean pulled his foot off the gas pedal and moved to slam it onto the brake, a spasm caused Sam's left hand to shoot out, catching Dean hard under the nose.

Dean saw stars, his right foot slipping forward and jamming into the gas pedal. The car sped up as Dean's left hand slipped down the wheel, jerking the car to the left and into the oncoming lane.

Reflexes dulled by lack of sleep and driving one-handed as he struggled to push his brother back against the seat, Dean over-corrected the steering. The lurch to the right sent the big Chevy into a 360-degree, clockwise spin across the road and then onto the sandy shoulder where the passenger-side front tire clipped a large rock. The impact threw both brothers to the left. Dean's head hit the driver's side window hard and an unconscious Sam toppled sideways, landing slumped against his brother.

The Impala hit another rock, the jolt throwing Dean forward, his forehead colliding with the steering wheel, and tossing Sam onto the floor. With both driver and passenger unconscious, momentum alone carried the car forward. It continued in a straight line across the hard desert, diagonal to the road, before colliding with a boulder, the right front headlights shattering on impact, and the car coming to an abrupt stop.

The throaty rumble of the Impala's engine was the only audible sound in the late afternoon desert. A cloud of sandy dirt, kicked up by the Chevy in its unplanned off-road trek, surrounded the car. Inside its two occupants were unmoving, Dean slumped against the wheel, Sam sprawled on the floor, his head resting against Dean's leg, his own legs bent awkwardly in the space much too small for his 6'4" frame. A slight twitching of his left hand against his chest was the only remaining evidence of the seizure that had set this latest series of events in motion.

_**To Be Continued…**_

_**A/N**__: I know, I know…another cliffie. I really can't help myself. __:)__ I'd love to know what you think. Your notes and comments make it like Christmas in August. Thanks so much for reading. Next chapter up Wednesday or Thursday. Hope to see you then. Cheers._


	4. Chapter 4

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_, but stands independently.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N:** _Again, a great big thanks to everyone for the incredibly encouraging reviews, comments and PMs – they're always appreciated. To JustaFan and CloudedSky, who I can't PM, a big thanks for your kind words. To the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – you rock! Thanks for the beta, the encouragement and the occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. Please enjoy._

**CHAPTER 4**

Sam stood hidden in the trees, studying the man 50 feet away from him.

He was tall, in his mid-50s but his dark, wiry hair showed only hints of gray at the temples. He stood beside a golf cart, phone pressed to his left ear while he impatiently tapped the ground with the club in his right hand.

His body language screamed anger long before Sam heard him speak. "No. No more delays. I need an answer by Tuesday or the deal's off the table. The bastard's just screwing around with us. He knows he doesn't stand a hope in hell in front of a jury."

The man exuded confidence that bordered on arrogance. He was used to getting what he wanted.

Sam smiled. That was about to change.

"Fine. It's his funeral." The man snapped the phone shut and tossed it in annoyance into the front seat of the golf cart before turning to his partner. "Cocky son of a bitch thinks I've gone soft in retirement."

The younger man smiled. "Relax. He'd be stupid to refuse the deal but, if he does, you know we'll chew him up and spit him out in court." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You know, when most people retire, they actually stop working."

The older man chuckled, his professional veneer cracking briefly to reveal the man hidden within. "That's what my wife keeps telling me. But I'll stop working when I'm dead."

Sam's smile widened as he stepped out from behind the tree, rubbing his back as he walked up to the two men.

The elder of the two frowned at his approach. "Yes?"

Sam took in the gray eyes, the sharp nose, and the close-cropped hair. Except for a few more wrinkles, he had changed little over the years.

The man's annoyance with the approaching stranger's silence was clear. "Can I help you?"

Sam grinned. "No, but I can help you." The sun glinted briefly off the blade of the knife before Sam plunged it into the man's heart. He grabbed the man's shirt with his left hand to keep him standing then gave the blade a final twist. The man's eyes opened wide in shock. Sam leaned in close and felt the man's last, warm breath on his face. "There. Now you can stop working."

He pulled out the knife and blood spurted from the wound, staining Sam's shirt. He released his hold on the man, dead the moment the knife entered his heart, and smiled in satisfaction as his victim crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

The attack was over in seconds. The man's younger partner looked on horrified, his horror quickly turning to fury as the dead man fell. Sam turned toward him, knife raised to attack again, but his intended victim was quicker. He swung his golf club viciously, connecting with the side of Sam's head. Pain exploded behind his eyes as the club smashed into his temple, wiping out all sensation and sending him falling into oblivion.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam jolted back to consciousness. His head was pounding, loudly and steadily. Sweat trickled down his face but his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, then frowned at the bitter, metallic taste of blood.

His eyes slowly slid open and he found himself staring at the roof of the Impala. He was lying on his back on the floor, wedged between the front seat and the dashboard, his back arched over the transmission tunnel, his long legs bent awkwardly in the confined space.

His left arm was folded underneath him, numb from lying on it too long. He reached for the front seat with his right to leaver himself up and his hand smacked Dean's leg.

"Hey." Head still fuzzy, he smacked it again. "Help me up."

He frowned when there was no response. With a groan, he twisted his head to look up at his brother. Dean lay slumped against the steering wheel, his face turned toward the passenger side, his eyes closed. Blood trickled from a gash in his forehead, mixing with sweat as it ran down his nose and the side of his face. More blood ran down his chin from a split lip.

"Dean? Hey."

There was no answer, no movement. Sam's heart rate ratcheted up as he struggled to free himself. Clumsily hauling himself off the floor, he winced as his recovering knee protested the contortions and his back cramped thanks to the awkward position he had been lying in. His left arm was still numb, the pins and needles loudly announcing restored circulation as he began moving about.

The heat in the car was stifling and he was drenched in sweat by the time he pulled himself up onto the seat, sliding along it so he sat next to his brother. He shakily placed two fingers on Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse.

"M'not dead, Sam." Dean's mumbled response was tinged with annoyance.

"Then you should have said something." Worry quickly diluted Sam's fear-fueled anger. Dean's eyes were still closed and he had yet to move. "How bad is it?"

"Been better."

Sam rested his hand on his brother's back. "Can you move?"

"Just need a second." Dean cleared his throat. "Maybe a minute."

The longer Dean stayed still, the harder is was for Sam to contain his worry. "Dean-"

"Sam, m'okay. Just got my bell rung." Dean pushed himself weakly off the steering wheel.

Sam kept one hand on Dean's back, the other on his shoulder as he helped him lean back against the seat. He didn't miss the grimace or sharp inhalation of air. "Dude, you're a mess."

"No, I'm adorable." He peeled open one eye, his forced smile fading as he stared at Sam. "You good?"

Sam nodded. "Fine."

Dean blinked slowly, as if trying to get his vision to focus, but his eyes were locked on his brother. "You're bloody."

Sam dabbed his fingers against his mouth. "Bit my lip, that's all." He sighed at Dean's disbelieving look. "Not sure how but I'm in one piece, which is more than I can say for you." He reached over to check the nasty gash on Dean's forehead but his brother weakly batted away his hand.

"Quit it. I said I'm good." Dean squeezed his eyes closed. "Both you and your twin can quit worrying."

Now it was Sam's turn to frown. "You're seein' double?"

"Sam, chill." Dean slowly rolled his head across the seatback to look dazedly at his brother. "Just my turn for a monster headache. Why should you have all the fun?"

Sam sat back. "Not funny." His jaw clenched at Dean's sluggish reactions and he reached for the car keys. "I'll get the first aid kit from the trunk so I-"

"Wait." Dean took another weak swipe at his arm. "How's the car?"

"What?"

Dean forced open his eyes and squinted out the front window. "I can hear that's she's still running, but why is that boulder up in her grill?"

Sam followed Dean's line-of-sight. For the first time, he took in the large rock jammed against the Impala's bumper, the thick, sandy dirt that coated the hood and windows and the fact that the road was about 500 feet to their left. "We're off the road." He frowned. "I'm a little fuzzy on the 'how.'"

Dean's eyes slid closed for a moment then he turned to face Sam, fixing him with a glassy stare. "You had another seizure. I was trying to stop you from faceplanting on the dashboard when you decked me."

"I what?"

"Relax." Dean sighed. "Lucky shot, nothin' more. Those orangutan arms of yours were flailing about, caught me on the nose." He winced as he reached up to touch the gash on his forehead. "Steering wheel did more damage."

Sam pulled his hand away away from the cut, then reached into the backseat and grabbed the shirt Dean had peeled off at their last gas stop. He folded it into a ball, pressed it against Dean's forehead to stem the bleeding, then grabbed Dean's right hand and lifted it up to hold the shirt in place. "We need the first-aid kit."

"No." Dean lifted the cloth off his head and frowned at the blood that now stained it. "Don't turn off the engine 'til I know how bad she is. Might not get her started again." Dean listened to the growl of the Impala's engine, then groaned as he pushed himself up. "How long was I out?"

Sam shrugged. "Not sure." He glanced at his watch. "Half hour. Maybe less."

Dean's eyes were closed again. "How we doin' for gas?"

Sam leaned over and checked the gauge. "Just under half full."

Dean nodded. "Good. I just need a minute, then I'll check out the damage."

"You look like crap, Dean." Sam pulled a bottle of water from the knapsack he'd retrieved from the floor and unscrewed the cap. "Here, drink this."

Dean peeled open his eyes, dropped the bloody shirt in his lap and took the water bottle from Sam. After taking a long drink, he passed the half-full bottle back to his brother. "The seizure – it was another vision, right?"

Sam rolled the cap to the water bottle between his thumb and his finger, nodding tersely.

Dean's voice was steady. "Another murder?"

"Yeah."

"With you as the killer?"

Sam's nod was barely perceptible.

Dean stared unseeing out the Impala window. "Well we know it's not Chapman, and it's not you, so who is it this time?"

Sam fastened the cap on the water bottle. "It's looking more like possession of some kind."

Dean's patience, always in short supply, was rapidly running out. "Fine. Some spirit, some demon is on a bodysnatching, killing spree – why the hell are you involved?"

He could see Sam struggling to find an answer. He winced as he twisted in his seat to face his brother but his eyes seemed clearer, more focused. "First things first: You good? And no bullshit."

Sam shrugged, looking down. "Just stiff from being wedged down there too long, that's all."

"Well nine feet of Sam doesn't fit in four feet of space." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Your vision. Tell me what you saw."

Sam, twisting and untwisting the cap on the water bottle, looked up at Dean, then turned again to stare out into the desert. "There were two men playing golf. The killer listened to one of them have a phone conversation, then just walked up to him and stabbed him in the heart." Sam's voice was quiet. "There was no hesitation. I can still feel him twisting the knife…"

A slight twitch of the muscle along Dean's jaw was the only visible sign as he fought to control his building anger. "Any idea who the victim is?"

Sam shook his head. "I didn't hear any names but from the conversation the victim had on the phone, I'd say he's a lawyer."

Dean canted his head toward Sam. "A lawyer and judge. I'm guessing that's not a coincidence."

"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. "And I think maybe the killer's dead too."

Dean's raised eyebrows were an unspoken "Why?"

"The lawyer's golf partner took a swing at the killer with a golf club," Sam said, rubbing his temple. "Connected too if the pain that exploded in my head is anything to go by."

Dean's eyes widened. "You felt the pain?"

Sam dropped the water bottle on the seat beside him. "A little. I snapped out of the vision right as the golf club connected."

Dean's picked up the wadded shirt and again pressed it against his still bleeding forehead. "Well if the murder played out like you described, it's gonna be splashed across the front page. At least then we'll know who this guy is and we can –"

"We have to try to stop it."

"How?" Dean shifted in his seat to face Sam. "We don't know the vic's name or even where the murder takes place. And, if it's anything like your last vision, it's happening in real time so it's already over." His voice softened. "I'm sorry, Sammy, but, chances are, the guy's already dead."

Sam turned to stare out the window.

Dean sighed. "Look, you had another seizure. That means we need to get you checked out. Once we get to Scottsdale, we can-"

"No." Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "No hospital. I told you before, they can't help."

"Damn it, Sam. It was a seizure. That's nothing-"

"I said 'no.'" Sam's eyes blazed angrily as he turned toward Dean. "Some spirit or demon is tapped into my psychic thing. We need to find out who it is and how he's doing it, stop him from killing people and sever that link. That's how we stop this, not with another trip to the ER."

Dean dropped the bloody shirt on the seat beside him. "Tell me again you're okay"

Sam looked up a Dean's battered, blood-stained face. "Right now, I'm better than you."

Dean scowled but nodded. "Then we stick with the original plan: talk to the housekeeper and the security guard. Maybe, by then, we'll have heard something about the second victim that will help us figure out how they're connected – other than through you."

"Yeah." Sam sorted through what he remembered of the vision. "The lawyer was retired too. Maybe he and the judge are both in Scottsdale."

Dean snorted. "It'd be a first for us if the pieces fit together that neatly, but it's worth a shot." He scowled as he stared out the front window at the nose of the Impala pressed up against the boulder. "But, right now, I need to see how messed up my baby is."

Sam reached down to grab his cellphone which had fallen on the floor in the crash. "We could call for a tow." He flipped open the phone, punched a few keys and then sighed. "Or not. No signal."

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and went through the same exercise with the same result. "Perfect." He looked outside, scanning the open desert that stretched out on either side of the road. "And since we've been out here in plain sight for a good chunk of time, and I haven't heard a car pass us since I came to, I'm guessing flagging down help is a long-shot."

Sam motioned with his head to the road. "I was on the phone with the cops about a mile back. The signal was starting to break up but at least there still was one. I could hike back…"

Dean shook his head. "In this heat – and with everything else that's going on? Uh-uh. Let me check out the car first, see how bad it is."

He bit back a groan as he opened the door and pulled himself to his feet. Sam watched him worriedly. Dean teetered a little as he stood up, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, but regained his balance quickly as he walked around the back of the car to the passenger side and up to the front to inspect the damage.

Sam pushed open his door and, with a groan that rivaled his brother's, pulled himself up and stretched his aching back before limping over to stand behind Dean who now knelt beside the right front wheel.

"Tire's shredded, bumper's cracked, both right headlights are toast…" Dean lay down on his back, twisting his head to look under the car. "No puddles under the rad or engine which is a good sign. Frame doesn't look too bad, but I won't be able to tell how bad the alignment's screwed 'til I drive her." He pushed himself up then accepted Sam's offered hand for help in standing. "Looks like we weren't going that fast when we hit this rock. I'll get the spare then we'll get this show on the road."

Sam nodded, rubbing his bad knee distractedly. "We should take care of that gash on your head."

Dean's voice was muffled as he pulled open the passenger door and leaned inside for the keys. "Car first." With a muttered "Baby, don't let me down," he turned off the engine and pushed himself out of the car. Walking to the rear and opening the trunk, he lugged their duffel bags out of the way and grabbed the spare, hauling it out and carrying it around to the front while Sam ferreted out the jack and the lug wrench.

Following his brother and handing him the jack, Sam waited as Dean pushed it into place and levered up the car. The desert heat was oppressive. Each brother wore only a thin T-shirt and jeans but Dean's shirt was already soaked with sweat in a deep V in the front and a wide stripe from shoulder blades to waist in the back. Sweat also glistened on his neck and bare arms as he worked.

Sam's T-shirt looked much the same. He dragged his arm across his forehead to stop sweat running into his eyes but could feel it running freely down his back.

Dean raised his hand and Sam answered the unspoken request, handing him the lug wrench. Dean made short work of the lug nuts, then wrestled off the shredded tire, rolling it awkwardly to the side. Sam moved in, picked up the wrecked tire and carried it to the trunk. Stowing it at the back, he pulled out the first aid kit then threw their duffels back in the car.

As he tossed the first aid kit on the passenger seat, Sam shivered as a chill passed through him. He tensed; it was well over 100 degrees in the desert so a sudden drop in temperature meant only one thing. He scanned the area warily, and froze.

The dark-haired man he had first seen at the pool stared back at him from the far side of the rock that the Impala was wedged against.

"Dean." Sam smacked his brother on the shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the apparition.

Dean looked up to see Sam staring off to his right, over the car. His head snapped around to follow Sam's sightline. "What?"

The man walked toward Sam, his transluscent image bending and twisting in the shimmering waves of heat rising from the desert, his long black coat billowing around him. His dark eyes flashed dangerously and a slow, cold smile spread across his face.

Sam swallowed, eyes still fixed on the spirit. "You don't see him?"

Dean's brow furrowed. He stood slowly, his eyes darting from his brother to the far side of the car and back. "I see squat."

Sam glanced at Dean, lifted a hand to point at the apparition but when he glanced back, the spirit was gone. He gestured to where he had been standing. "He was right there. You didn't-"

"No." Dean's frown deepened. "And why the hell not? If it's a spirit-"

"Gah!" A sharp pain hit Sam suddenly, shooting from his head right down to his feet. Angry whispers again filled his head, drowning out all other sound. And in the cacophony of voices only one stood out, the same phrase playing over and over in a loop. "_Stop him. Help me_."

Seeing Sam waver, Dean dropped the tire iron and lunged forward, catching his brother just as his knees gave way and he slumped sideways against the car. Dean sank to the ground with Sam, gripping both arms tightly. "Sammy?"

Dean's voice seemed a long way off even though Sam could feel his hands supporting him. But inside his head there was another presence.

"_Sam_." The voice was soft but dangerous. "_It's good to know your name_."

"Who…are you?" Sam could barely spit out the words as the pain in his head threatened to pull consciousness from him. He peeled open his eyes and Dean's worried face was sliding in and out of focus only inches from his own.

The voice in his head laughed softly. "_And to think you weren't even on my list_…_How could I have overlooked such…potential_."

Sam's hands were shaking as he pressed them to his head. "Get out."

"_When I had to work so hard to get in? I think not_." He laughed again. "_The others were easy because they were weak. But you…with you I can take this further. Do so much more."_

Sam could feel Dean shaking him gently; he could see his brother's worried face, see his lips moving but the only voice he heard was the one inside his head_. "Let's see…"_

The pressure inside Sam's skull intensified, the searing pain behind his eyes blinding as the strange voice began chanting in a language he didn't understand but that seemed strangely familiar.

The chanting stopped and the voice grew colder, more deadly. "_You're fighting me, Sam…forcing me to fight back_." His chanting resumed, his voice flat, cold, all pretense of civility gone. "_You won't like it when I fight back_."

The whispers in his head became angry shouts. The man's chanting grew louder, competing with the voices until they filled Sam's head.

The noise was too much. A thin trickle of blood ran from Sam's nose as he fell forward against Dean. In the brief moment before unconsciousness claimed him, the chanting and the whispers disappeared and two words filled his head. "Stop him."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean's eyes widened as he tightened his hold on Sam in anticipation of the seizure he was sure would follow. It didn't. Sam simply didn't move.

"Dude, come on." His laugh was nervous, a defense mechanism to protect himself from the very real fear gnawing at him from the inside out. "What's going on?"

He could feel Sam's heart beating rapidly, hear his shallow breaths but, otherwise, he was still. Dean eased him down, laying him on his side. "Damn it." He swallowed when he saw the blood still running from his brother's nose, flashing back to the asylum in Rockford, Illinois and their run-in with Dr. Sandford Ellicott. "Who the hell is messing with your head this time, huh?"

He pushed himself up, scrambled around the car to the trunk and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and a towel from his duffel. Soaking the towel, he dropped to his knees, wiping his brother's face, cleaning away the blood and hoping the cool water would rouse him. But Sam remained unresponsive; the nosebleed slowed but his brother showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

"Okay, that's it." Dean's worry was quickly approaching panic. "Screw your 'no hospital' rant. ER here we come."

Dean ignored the sweat trickling down his face and his back as he hefted Sam to his feet, wrangled open the car door and lowered his brother into the passenger seat.

All thoughts of driving the Impala carefully until he assessed the extent of her damage disappeared behind the need to help Sam. Dean quickly finished changing the tire and then climbed into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and muttered a curse-filled thanks when the Impala fired up immediately. He backed up from the boulder, spun the Chevy around in a cloud of sandy dust, and floored her in a straight line back to the road. The trek across the desert was a bumpy one that roughly jostled the Impala's passengers. Dean once again found himself shooting out his right hand to hold Sam in place and stop him from being thrown forward.

He relaxed only slightly when, with one final jolt, the car left the rough desert for the cracked blacktop of the road.

Dean grabbed his phone and dialed, cursing loudly when he couldn't get a signal. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and hit redial.

Dean glanced again at Sam, tucking his phone under his chin as he reached over and pressed his fingers against his brother's neck. Sam was breathing evenly and his pulse was steady but he had yet to show any signs of waking. Dean pulled his hand back and slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration – frustration that was quickly turning to fury. Something supernatural was tearing his brother apart, physically and emotionally, and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. There was nothing to shoot, nothing to salt and burn, nothing to throw himself in front of.

Sam had seen something, he knew that. But if it was a spirit, why the hell hadn't he seen it, too?

He shot another look at his brother as he grabbed his phone and tried again to push his call through. He had been driving for 10 minutes, losing track of the number of times he'd hit redial, before it finally began ringing.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam fought past a crushing headache to return to consciousness. He heard Dean's worried voice before he found the energy to peel open his eyes.

"No. This time there was no seizure. But there definitely was one when we went off the road.

"Yeah, there was a nosebleed but it's stopped now. Not sure if that's tied to whatever's messing with him or the crash, but he seemed okay before ... Relax, Doc … Forget I said crash … We just went off the road. The car took the brunt of it …

"Doc, I'm fine … We just need to figure out what the hell's goin' on with Sam."

Sam opened his eyes and rolled his head toward the sound of Dean's voice. His brother was behind the wheel and talking on his cell. Sam glanced out the front window and realized they were flying down the road, well above the speed limit – whatever it was.

"Slow down." Sam frowned at the sound of his own voice, which was raw and tired.

Dean's head snapped to the right. "Wait, he just came to." He pulled the phone from his mouth. "How you doin', Sammy?"

Sam screwed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. "To steal your line, 'been better.'"

"Headache?"

"Uh-huh."

"Scale of one to ten…"

"Six…seven maybe."

"You feel sick?"

"No." Sam gave a slight shake of his head, afraid any larger gesture would make a liar of him.

Dean returned the phone to his mouth. "You hear that? Yeah … Okay …That's the plan but he's gonna fight me on it ... Okay, I will." He glanced at his watch. "We're about 90 minutes out …Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks, Doc."

Dean clicked the phone shut, dropped it on the seat beside him, and picked up a bottle of water, handing it to Sam. "Here, drink this. Painkillers, the good ones, are in the glove box."

"Thanks." Sam took the bottle of water and slowly pushed himself up, squinting against the bright light as he looked again outside the car and at the desert landscape flashing by them. "What am I gonna fight you on?" He turned to face Dean, then waved his hand at the discarded phone in response to his brother's raised eyebrows. "You told Doc I wouldn't go for something. What?"

"She wants you back in the hospital, so that's where we're going."

Sam's jaw clenched. "I'm getting tired of saying this: a hospital can't fix this."

Dean glanced over at his brother. "Seizures, nosebleeds – she's worried, Sammy. And she's not the only one."

Sam took a drink of water, then recapped the bottle. "Don't suppose you told her the crash knocked you out, that you're seeing double, that-"

"Don't change the subject." Dean's scowl softened. "Seriously, dude: these visions get worse every time. What the hell did you see back there?"

Sam opened the glove compartment and pulled out the bottle of painkillers. He hesitated for a moment then turned to face Dean. "It wasn't a vision – it was a warning."

Dean's hand tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. "What?"

Sam shook out the pills and swallowed them, washing them down with another drink of water before slumping tiredly against the passenger door. "This guy, this spirit, whatever he is…he doesn't like that I'm fighting him. Making him fight back."

Dean scowled. "No offence, Sammy, but from where I'm sitting he's kicking the crap out of you."

Sam took another drink of water. "But he hasn't made me kill anyone. Maybe that's what he wants." He slowly twisted the lid back on the bottle. "Maybe he wants to use me like he used Donald Chapman to kill the judge and whoever killed the lawyer. But, for some reason, he can't."

"And that's about the only good thing in this mess." Dean's scowl deepened. "Wouldn't be the first time a spirit or a demon grabbed control of someone and used them to kill. But how's he picking his puppets and why the hell are you involved?"

Sam tapped the water bottle against his hand. "I don't know but, from what he just said, I don't think I was supposed to be involved. He said, 'to think I almost overlooked you.'"

"So how' the hell did you get in his headlights?"

Sam shrugged. "My psychic thing, maybe. Not sure. But he says I'm stronger than the others, but fighting him is forcing him to fight back. That's what I think this was – him trying to show me he's stronger." Sam swallowed. "That if he keeps pushing, he can take over."

Dean slammed his foot on the brake so suddenly Sam was forced to brace a hand on the dashboard to stop himself from pitching forward. Dean pulled the car to the side of the road, shoved the Impala into park and turned to glare at his brother. "Damn it, Sam."

Sam rolled the bottle of pills distractedly in his fingers. "He's not gonna stop. He's gonna keep pushing."

Dean's eyes flashed angrily. "Then you keep pushing back 'til we figure this out."

Sam dropped the bottle of pills on the seat between them. "The second voice, was back, too. Just keeps saying the same thing over and over in a loop – 'Stop him. Help me.' Then behind it, there's all these whispers, all these voices that are angry…scared."

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Son of a bitch. This is getting out of control.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "It's all connected somehow. We just have to put the pieces together right."

Dean snorted. "Well right now it feels like one of those 1,001-piece jigsaw puzzles of the sky on a cloudless day. 'Where does this blue piece go?'"

Sam took in his brother's battered face, still smeared with blood, dirt and sweat. The gash in his forehead had stopped bleeding, the skin around the cut already starting to bruise and his bottom lip swollen. "Dude, you're a mess." Sam pushed the first-aid kit across the seat. "Clean yourself up. It'll be hard to charm anyone tomorrow if you look like road kill."

Dean shot Sam a look, but popped open the lid on the tin box, pulled out a tiny sterile wipe, and tilted up the rearview mirror to examine the damage closely. He scowled at the bruised and bloody face staring back at him, then glanced down at the wipe. "I'm gonna need a few of these."

"Try this first." Sam folded the damp towel beside him inside out and handed it to Dean with the bottle of water.

"Thanks." Dean poured water on the towel and scrubbed his face clean, wincing as the rough cloth brushed against torn skin. "Voice dude give you anything else we can use?"

Sam closed his eyes, replaying the spirit's threat. "When he said I was forcing him to fight back, he started chanting – it sounded kinda like Latin, but it wasn't. At least no form I recognized."

Dean winced as he used the sterile wipes to clean the cuts on his face. "So it was a spell or incantation?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. I can remember a word here and there so I'll do some research when we get to Scottsdale." He reached into the first-aid kit, pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment and passed it to his brother.

Dean took it, tapping it against his leg as his focus remained on Sam. "So, to recap: we have one dead judge, killed by the late Donald Chapman. Reasons unknown. We have a soon-to-be-dead lawyer, name unknown, location unknown, taken out by an unknown killer. And we have an unknown spirit connected to both murders and to you, through your one-man psychic network. That pretty much it?"

"Pretty much." Sam shook his head. "But there are a helluva lot of unknowns in what we do know."

"We'll figure it out, Sammy. I promise you that." Dean rubbed antibiotic ointment into the broken skin on his forehead, wiped off the excess, and then accepted the three butterfly strips Sam handed him to pull the gash closed. When he was done he nodded at the mirror. "A little too Frankenstein for my taste," he grinned at Sam, "but still adorable."

Sam ignored the lame attempt at humor. He picked up the bottle of painkillers from the seat beside him. "Here, take these…"

"No." Dean shook his head as he shoved the Impala back in gear and pulled back onto the road. "We're still more than an hour from Scottsdale and those things knock me out."

Sam clenched his jaw. "You need…"

"I told you, they knock me out. What if you have a seizure, huh? What if…"

"Dean, you need to recharge your batteries." Sam slammed shut the lid on the first-aid kit. "You can't stay awake 24/7." He shrugged, changing tactics. "And you're not gonna help either one of us if you pass out from exhaustion."

Dean sighed. "I'll be fine, Sam. We'll grab some food when we hit Scottsdale, hit the hay then, tomorrow, we'll start filling in the blanks on some of those unknowns."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean awoke smiling. The bed, for once, was neither too hard nor too soft and the air conditioner worked, making the room a comfortable temperature despite the building Arizona heat outside the door. And, thanks to uninterrupted sleep courtesy of the pills Sam had insisted he take, he'd had a great dream about Jenna the gymnast, who had numerous creative uses for her natural flexibility.

And then he moved. Muscles wrenched in the crash had stiffened overnight and his head was still loudly protesting its collision with the steering wheel. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

Sam's voice sounded close by. "How you doin'?"

Dean's voice was muffled by the pillow. "M'fine – if I don't move."

"You wanna sit this one out?"

Dean lifted his head and opened one eye to peer up at Sam. "Sit what…oh." His brother was already showered, wearing a dress shirt and pants and straightening the knot in his tie. Right. They had arranged appointments with security guard Marty Forbes and the judge's housekeeper Isabel Stanton, under the guise of insurance investigators hired by Forbes' security firm.

Dean scowled when he saw what his brother was wearing. "No, Sam. No suits. We're in Arizona – it's like 9,000 degrees out there."

"Sorry. Insurance investigators equals suits." Sam studied his brother worriedly.

Dean frowned at Sam's expression. "Quit looking at me like that?"

Sam finished straightening his tie and pulled the collar of his shirt into place. "I'm just thinking of all the times we've explained away black eyes and split lips from a hunt as car accident injuries – and here you get hurt in a car accident and you look like you've been in a prize fight."

Dean groaned loudly as he sat up, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. The bruising around the gash in his forehead had blossomed into a vivid array of blues, greens and purples that extended down the bridge of his nose and under his left eye. Sam had a point. He shrugged. "At least I look like I won."

Sam frowned at Dean's labored movements. "Seriously, Dean. If you wanna sit this one out, I can-"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, I'm in. Once I've had a shower, I'll be good."

Sam nodded. "Then we should get going. We're supposed to be at Forbes' house by 10:30 and we still have to clean out the weapons locker before we drop off the Impala and pick up the rental car."

Dean threw off the sheets and pulled his legs out of bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face and squinted sleepily at Sam. "Great. Suits and a sub-compact. I hate this day already."

Sam smiled. "There's a bright side; the rental will be air-conditioned."

A call to Bobby had hooked them up with an auto body shop that both handled classic cars and could get the work done quickly, and with a minimum of questions. The Impala was at the front of the line for the bodywork and alignment, and new headlights would be couriered over from Phoenix before noon. If all went according to plan, she would be back on the road by late afternoon. But that meant they were stuck with a rental car in the interim.

Dean looked around the room, sniffing the air hopefully. "Why don't I smell coffee?"

"Coffeemaker's busted. We'll pick up some on the way to the body shop."

Dean pushed himself off the bed with the groan. "Just remember, I'm no fun 'till I'm caffeinated." He looked over at Sam. His brother wasn't as pale as he had been the night before but he still looked on edge. "What about you? You get any sleep?"

Sam nodded curtly. "I slept fine."

"Headache?"

Sam shrugged. "Already took something for it."

"Change your mind about a hospital check up?"

"Nope. Now hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah…." Dean yawned, rubbing a hand through his hair as he stumbled toward the bathroom. "Gimme five minutes – ten if I have to wear a freakin' tie."

Two hours later they had cleaned out the trunk, dropped off the Impala, picked up the rental and completed their interview with the security guard.

Dean frowned as he pulled up to the curb a few doors down from the judge's house; a police cruiser was parked in the driveway. "What the hell are the cops doin' here?"

"Probably doing follow up interviews, like we are." Sam reached into the back seat and pulled his laptop from his computer bag. He settled the computer on his knees, opened it, then looked over at the judge's house. "Give'em a few more minutes, then hopefully they'll clear out. I'd rather not test our cover story face-to-face with the cops if we don't have to."

"Roger that."

Dean had bitched all morning about the nondescript sedan the rental company had given them but now he was begrudgingly grateful for the anonymity, and air conditioning, it provided as they waited for the cops to leave.

Dean sipped his third coffee of the morning as he casually scanned the street. "Forbes, the security guard, he seemed like a pretty straight shooter – no pun intended."

"Yeah." Sam smiled as he found a wireless signal to tap into and pulled up the Internet. "I believe him. He's obviously in shock over being forced to take a man's life but his story is consistent."

Dean took another sip of his coffee and frowned as he looked around the street. The judge lived in a gated community; he and Sam had had to give their names, to the security guard at the gatehouse, who allowed them in only when he confirmed they were expected. "You said there was no record of Chapman coming in through the main gate, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Cops think he snuck in across the golf course which backs onto the development."

Dean pursed his lips. "So, our spirit possesses a guy battling lung cancer, rides him halfway across the country, then hikes a few miles over a golf course and through a subdivision to kill the judge. Makes perfect sense." He glanced again at the judge's house. "And why no exit strategy?"

Sam shook his head. "He didn't need one. To him, Donald Chapman was just a disposable puppet."

Dean frowned. "But, given your second vision, he obviously had plans to kill again. Why not just keep control of Chapman and have him do all the dirty work?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he can only control people for a short period of time. Maybe Chapman's body wasn't strong enough. Maybe he didn't factor in the security guard showing up. Maybe-"

Dean smacked Sam in the arm. "5-0's leaving."

The brothers slid down in their seats as the uniformed officers left the house, chatted briefly on the front walk then moved to the cruiser parked in the driveway. They kept themselves out of sight as the police car backed out of the driveway and drove off down the street.

"Oh God…"

"What? They're gone." Dean turned to see Sam staring again at the computer screen.

His brother looked sickened by what he was reading. "News report from L.A: Prosecutor T.J. Renton was stabbed to death late yesterday – while golfing."

Dean leaned over to look at the screen. The report included a head shot of the murder victim. "The guy from your vision?"

Sam nodded.

"They get the guy who did it?"

Sam shrugged, reading from the screen. "Sort of. Guy's name is Jack Munroe. After he stabbed Renton, Renton's golf partner took a swing at Munroe with a golf club. Munroe sustained massive head trauma – he died en route to the hospital." Sam closed the computer. "Police say Munroe's attack was unprovoked, reason is unknown and there's no apparent connection between victim and killer."

Sam looked like someone had just kicked him in the gut.

"There's nothing you could have done, Sam. Just 'cause you're tapped into this doesn't make any of it your fault. Hey…" Dean's eyes met his brother's. Sam didn't scare easily; he'd seen too much, been through too much. Now, though, he was clearly rattled. He repeated his reassurance for emphasis. "There's nothing you could have done. We talked about this. These visions are happening in real time …"

Sam nodded miserably. "…meaning we can't stop the murders."

Dean's jaw clenched at the emotional distress painted clearly across Sam's face. "But we can stop the killer. We just have to figure out who he is and how he's doing it."

"Yeah..."

Dean's frown deepened. "You said that murder was in L.A.?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's a new wrinkle." Dean turned toward Sam. "Angry spirits are usually tied to a specific person or place, right?"

Sam nodded, finishing the thought. "But, somehow, this spirit has managed to possess or control two different people in two different cities, hundreds of miles apart – not to mention showing up at the cabin, in our motel room and out in the desert."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Even if we discount your sightings as tied in to your psychic thing, how's he managing to be in two different cities?"

"I dunno." Sam's eyes flashed angrily as he placed his laptop in the back seat. "But figuring out how he's doing it is the key to stopping him. Let's go." He pushed open the door, stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him.

Dean watched Sam walk away from car, fasten his suit jacket and straighten his tie before turning and motioning for his brother to hurry up. Sam still looked pale and tired, but the fear Dean had glimpsed moments earlier had faded quickly. Now, Sam was pissed.

Dean smiled softly as he shifted in his seat, pushed open the door and stepped out of the car into the stifling Arizona heat. Anger made Sam analytical and analytical thinking got them answers. And answers were the key to keeping his brother safe.

He slammed the door, walked around the car and headed up the front path to the house, overtaking Sam. "Come on. Let's get this interview done; then we can go back to the motel and see if we can put the pieces together."

Neither brother was aware of the camera pointed in their direction, or of the man snapping photos of the two of them as they approached the late judge's house.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam screwed his eyes closed as the words on the computer screen in front of him slid out of focus. He put down the pen he'd been tapping absentmindedly on the laminate table, pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

Since the first seizure, his headache had been constant, varying only in intensity. While it had been a dull ache most of the day, now it was ramping up again. Sam reached for the bottle of Ibuprofen on the table, dumped out three pills, tossed them in his mouth and dry swallowed them.

Pushing his chair away from the small table, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he raked his fingers through his hair. He blew out a long, slow breath before glancing at the closed bathroom door, listening to the sound of running water on the far side of it.

Dean had offered Sam first shower and Sam had accepted with a simple 'Thanks.' He'd disappeared into the bathroom to the sound of Dean shouting, "Don't lock the door."

The shower had helped him relax but the respite was temporary. Now, less than 10 minutes later, his headache was building again and the knot between his shoulder blades was back, sending long tendrils of tension twisting up his neck, across his shoulders and down his back, muscles stiffening with their touch.

The housekeeper, Isabel Stanton, had been a sweet woman, obviously still in shock from the horror of witnessing the judge's murder. She had answered Sam and Dean's questions patiently, even fussed over Dean when she learned his head injury had been sustained in a car accident just the previous day. They'd had to do some fast talking when she threatened to call their boss and give him a piece of her mind for making Dean work when he should be at home resting but, as far as the murder was concerned, she had given them only one piece of new information: the two victims, Judge Matthews and lawyer T.J. Renton, were well acquainted. Both had spent their careers in the Los Angeles County legal system and Renton had prosecuted many of the cases that Judge Matthews had presided over.

As far as Isabel knew, however, the two men had seen little of each other since the judge retired and moved to Scottsdale.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, knowing the murderer's identity likely lay hidden among the hundreds, possible thousands, of cases the two men worked on together. The information also meant another long drive back to California for Dean, and a mountain of Internet research for Sam. Given the events of the past few days, the brothers agreed to stay the night in Scottsdale, then hit the road first thing in the morning.

Sam had tried to get a jump on the research, firing up the computer the minute Dean headed for the shower, but right now he could barely keep his eyes open. He was bone-weary tired. He stared at the bed less than four feet from him. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to crawl in, fall asleep and not wake up for a week; to forget all about the voice invading his head, the angry whispers that always accompanied it and the grisly visions he was forced to watch.

As if on cue, a sharp pain flared behind his right eye. Sam screwed his eyes closed and massaged his temple with his thumb. He frowned as the room became unnaturally quiet, the running water of Dean's shower and soft hum of the window air conditioner fading away to nothing, the soft inhale and exhale of his own breathing and the steady thumping of his heartbeat eerily magnified.

Sam peeled open his eyes and glanced around the room. He was alone but he sensed another presence. Suddenly, he was aware of whispering, voices in the distance slowly becoming louder and clearer until they filled his head.

Sam pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, breathing heavily. He bit his lip as the pressure in his head increased with the volume of the voices. Suddenly the whispers faded behind the lone, familiar voice of the spirit now chanting in the same strange language he'd used in the desert. Sam could hear the words clearly this time but still didn't understand them. His stomach lurched as the pain in his head sharpened and intensified.

He glanced at the closed bathroom door. Dean needed to know what was happening. Sam took a step but his legs buckled. He fell heavily to his knees, then toppled sideways, landing on the floor at the base of the bed. His harsh breathing echoed loudly through his head, a stark counterpoint to the smooth monotone of the chanting voice.

"Get. Out." Sam jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, a futile attempt to relieve the now blindingly sharp pain ripping through his head.

Sam rolled onto his stomach, burying his forehead in the worn carpet and wrapping his arm around his head trying to block out the incessant chanting.

Then, as suddenly as the pain hit, it was gone. The pressure in his head dissipated and the voice was silenced. Sam opened his eyes dazedly, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

The deep voice again filled his head. "_You ready, Sam_."

Sam felt sick. He rolled onto his side, again pressing his forehead into the floor. "Get…out…of my…head.

"_Why would I do that? We're just getting to the fun part_."

Pain flared again suddenly, pushing Sam to the brink of unconsciousness. "I'll…stop…you..."

"_No…you won't. _" The voice sighed, like it was tired of trying to explain something simple to an impatient child. "_In fact, you'll do just what I say._"

The voice began chanting again.

Sam's eyes snapped open as he pushed himself to his feet and walked easily toward the bathroom door. Only now, he wasn't in control - he was a passenger in his own body, fully aware of his actions but with no sway over them.

He heard Dean shut off the water and draw back the shower curtain. "You getting hungry, Sam? I'm starving."

Sam's heart was racing. He shouted out a warning to his brother but no sound came out; his voice no longer his to use. He felt himself press against the wall to the left of the bathroom, out of the line of sight of the doorway, as the voice droned on in his head.

"Sam?" The worry was evident in Dean's voice even through the closed door. "Oh fuck..."

The bathroom door flew open and Dean emerged in a cloud of steam wearing only his boxers.

As Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam stepped behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dean spun around, relaxing visibly when he saw Sam standing in front of him. "What the hell, Sam? I thought you'd had another…"

Sam's fingers curled into a fist that he drove hard into Dean's stomach. Dean doubled over, coughing, at the unexpected assault, his eyes widening in surprise. Sam stepped quickly behind Dean, grabbing his hair with left hand and pulling him backwards and off his feet. As Dean stumbled back, Sam wrapped his right arm around his brother's neck in a chokehold. With his left, he shoved his brother's head forward locking Dean's neck in the tightening 'V' of Sam's arm.

Caught completely off guard, Dean had no leverage. His bare feet slipped and slid on the carpet as Sam pulled him backwards, keeping him off-balance and taking away all means of counterattack.

Sam watched helplessly and horrified as Dean's struggles to escape the chokehold weakened before stopping completely. Dean's hands that had been pawing at the arm wrapped around his neck went lax and then fell limply to his sides.

Still Sam held on, Dean's entire weight suspended by the arm wrapped around his neck. "Let him go." Sam's voice was screaming inside his head. He stared terrified at Dean's unmoving form. "Let him go." This time it wasn't a demand. It was a plea. "Please."

The voice stopped chanting and laughter again filled Sam's head. His hold on Dean relaxed and he shoved his brother forward. Dean crumpled to the floor, landing sprawled on his stomach in front of the bathroom door.

Unable to move, Sam stood frozen in place, eyes locked on the still form of his brother.

The voice hardened as the laughter died away. "_I've found the key, Sam. This is just the beginning_."

_**To Be Continued…**_

**A/N:** Dun-dun-dun! I promise you'll get some answers to the puzzle in the next chapter, up this weekend. I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading. Cheers.


	5. Chapter 5

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N:** _A huge thanks to everyone for reading, the reviews, the comments and PMs – I'm incredibly grateful and just thrilled you're enjoying the story. To JustaFan, again, thank you! To my betas, the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. The first big answer to the puzzle lies ahead._

**CHAPTER 5**

Sam stared at his brother's body.

Dean lay sprawled on the carpet, face down, unmoving, right where he'd dropped after Sam finished choking him.

Still under the spirit's control, Sam couldn't move, couldn't talk. He screamed in silent frustration, fighting to break the hold, his fury building with every second he stood frozen in place, unable to fight back, unable to help Dean. For the second time in his life, he was a prisoner inside his own body.

But this was different from the time he'd been possessed by Meg; his thoughts were still his own even as his body moved at the will of some outside force; even as he strangled his brother.

Movement pulled his gaze from Dean. His eyes darted upwards as the apparition flickered then solidified beside his brother. The man's lank, dark hair and long duster coat each rippled around him, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he took in the prone figure on the floor.

His dark eyes flashed dangerously as he looked up at Sam. "_It was just a matter of time before I found the right strings to pull_." He moved forward, walking through Dean.

Sam felt a chill as the spirit moved closer but it was rage not cold that made him tremble.

The spirit's smile widened, as if reading his thoughts. "_Always fighting me."_ He nodded slowly_. "It's that strength I need. With you, I can finish this."_

He lifted his hand, tracing his finger down Sam's face.

Sam's skin crawled at his touch, his heart racing, but his reaction was purely emotional. Physically, he felt nothing.

The spirit scowled. He grabbed for Sam's arm but his fingers passed straight through. He tried again, apparently as shocked as Sam that, in this form, he had no physical powers. "_No, this is the next step. I should_…"

He studied Sam curiously. "_What makes you so different from the others_? _They were easy – open doors. I just walked right in. But you_…_it's just one locked door after another_."

His image flickered, and Sam felt the hold on him weaken.

The spirit's expression darkened as he leaned forward, his face inches from Sam's. "_I like a good fight, Sam..."_ He glanced down at Dean, "..._but all in good time_." He turned back to Sam and smiled. "_The next one will be even better. Because_, t_hrough you_, _the last face they see will be mine_."

And then he was gone. All the pent-up energy Sam had been channeling into fighting the hold on him released suddenly and he toppled forward, crashing to the floor, beside his brother.

Heart slamming against his chest, gulping in air as if he'd been drowning, he pushed himself up and knelt beside Dean, again reaching for his neck but this time in search of pulse. He felt sick with relief when he found one.

"Dean?" Sam willed his brother to respond but he didn't move. Dean lay with his head turned away from Sam, the side of his face pressed into the worn carpet. Sam's hand was trembling as it slid down his brother's torso, fingers lightly resting on his rib cage as he waited for Dean's lungs to expand. When light pressure found a slight rise and fall, his own lungs emptied in an audible rush.

"Come on, man. Wake up…please." As Sam rolled his brother onto his back, Dean coughed, his eyes darting rapidly behind closed lids.

"That's it…that's it." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder. "Come on..."

Dean's eyes opened slowly. He stared blearily up at Sam. "What the hell?"

Guilt quickly replaced panic, gnawing at Sam's stomach. "Just take it slow."

Dean screwed his eyes closed. He coughed again, rolled away from Sam onto his side and tried to push himself up but his arms collapsed, refusing to support his weight. "Damn..."

"Easy..."

"No." Dean's face was pressed into the floor. "Carpet stinks. Get me up."

Sam rolled him over, then slid his hands under Dean's shoulders to slowly sit him up. What little color Dean had left drained quickly from his face and he fell limply against Sam. "Whoa. Head rush."

"Breathe through it…" Sam locked his arm around Dean, whose face was now pressed against Sam's chest.

Dean swallowed, then pulled open his eyes and dazedly looked around. He shivered as the air conditioner kicked in, goosebumps rising on his bare arms, legs and chest. He scowled. "Please tell me I'm not naked."

Sam frowned. "Relax. You've got your boxers on."

Dean nodded, his eyes sliding closed. He weakly patted Sam's chest. "Good. Otherwise this would be…awkward." His hand fisted in his brother's shirt. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Me? It's you..." Sam's head was spinning as he replayed the events of the past few minutes. "God, Dean…I'm sorry…I…"

Dean released his hold on his brother's shirt and smacked him in the chest. "Quit it. Wasn't you callin' the shots." Dean pushed himself off Sam. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he sat up, wavering slightly. "That bastard got to you, didn't he?"

Sam sat back on his heels, fighting the urge to throw up. "I…I couldn't stop him. Dean…I-"

"I said I'm fine, Sam." Dean's voice was growing stronger, his eyes clearer. He turned to face his brother, then made a quick grab for Sam as he started to fall over.

Sam tightened his hold again. "Right"

"Okay, maybe _fine_'s a stretch." Dean grimaced. "For starters, I'm more than a little bothered by the fact I'm sitting on the floor, nearly naked, being cuddled like a little girl.' He cleared his throat, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Sam. "You know what you did, right?"

Sam felt sick all over again. "God, I -"

"You don't, do you?" Dean smacked Sam again to get his full attention. "He didn't take over completely, Sammy. On some level you were still in charge."

Sam looked bewildered. "How the hell was I in charge. He made me strangle you."

Dean shook his head. "Maybe that's he wanted, but that wasn't a chokehold you laid on me. It was a classic sleeper, just like Dad taught us."

Sam's eyes widened. "What?"

Dean locked his gaze on Sam. "You put all the pressure on my carotid – cut off blood flow and knocked me out without ever touching my windpipe or stopping me breathing." He offered a weak grin. "I'm going under thinking, 'Nice move, Sammy. Textbook sleeper.'"

"Don't joke about this." Sam tried to process what Dean was telling him. "I was sure…It felt like…" He replayed the mechanics of the way he'd grabbed Dean, held his neck in the crook of his arm and applied steady pressure. The nausea returned as he thought back to learning the hold and of being forced to use it on his dad. "God, I hated that lesson."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. One of the first times I remember you really losing it with Dad." He pushed away from Sam, this time holding his balance as he sat up. "The language that came out of your mouth impressed the hell out of me. I didn't know you knew those words – let alone could string'em together like that."

Sam shuffled uncomfortably, then pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pull on his injured knee. "Dad deserved every name I called him. What kind of father makes his kid choke him unconscious?"

"A hunter who knows you might need it someday when threatened." Dean shrugged. "I think today was some day – I'm still here thanks to that lesson." His mouth twisted into a tired smirk. "And that ginormous brain of yours that never forgets anything."

"Dean, come on-"

"What?" Dean pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, waving off Sam's attempts to help and stumbled over to the bed, flopping tiredly on the edge. "Bastard wanted me dead, right? Show you who's boss by making you kill me?" He opened his arms wide. "Well, look at me – I ain't dead. And that tells me that, on whatever level counts, you were still calling the shots."

Sam stared at his brother, trying desperately to believe his theory. "I couldn't stop Meg killing Steve Wandell, or beating the crap out of you."

Dean rubbed his temple. "Maybe it's different with spirits."

"I hope you're right." Sam crossed to his duffel, grabbed the first aid-kit and pulled out a bottle of painkillers, offering them to Dean. "Because he's not done. He said he needed me to finish this."

Dean frowned. "Then why let you go?"

Sam shrugged. "To recharge his batteries, I guess. I think it takes a lot of juice to control someone. I felt his hold kind of slipping just before he bailed."

"Well, hopefully that buys us some time." Dean stared at the bottle of painkillers. "Man, we should buy stocks in this company." He dumped out two pills, tossed them in his mouth and dry swallowed them. His voice softened noticeably as he glanced up at his brother. "Seriously, you okay?"

"Yeah." Sam sat down on the bed. "It's weird. He came in all puffed up, all 'I'll show you,' you know, then…"

"Wait. He was here?"

Sam nodded.

Dean scowled. "I don't get it. If he can ping pong all over the place, why the hell does he need you – or any of the others? Why not just take out his targets himself?"

Sam shook his head. "Don't think he could. His apparition didn't seem to have any real power. He tried to grab my arm and…nothing. Looks like the only way he can do any physical harm is by controlling a living person."

"Still doesn't explain how he's bouncing all over the place." Dean rubbed his eyes tiredly. "This case is doing my head in." He squinted at the clock on the bedside table. "I say we grab a couple hours sleep, then hit the road for L.A. Dig up what we can on this second murder and find out who the hell this bastard is."

Sam swallowed. "I can't go through this again, Dean. I won't."

Dean's voice was tight. "Then let's make damn sure you don't."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean's sleep was fitful. Past and present mixed indiscriminately as he dreamed of a possessed Sam trying to strangle him, inky black clouding over hazel eyes as Sam's hands tightened around his throat. He woke, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his chest. He blew out a long, steady breath, needing a conscious effort to slow down his breathing.

He frowned as the hammering continued. His lifted his hand to his chest; his heart was still beating fast, but noticeably slowing down.

As the fog of sleep lifted, Dean realized the thumping was coming from across the room. He rolled over, eyes widening as he caught sight of his brother. Throwing back the covers, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbled, then fell to his knees at the side of Sam's bed.

Light from the parking lot outside spilled in through a crack in the drapes, illuminating the room enough for Dean to see the headboard of his brother's bed rhythmically banging against the wall as Sam was caught in the throes of yet another seizure.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam watched the door to the construction trailer fly open and a heavyset man wearing jeans, a plaid shirt and a hard hat storm out, pausing at the top of the steps and allowing the door to slam behind him. "Goddammit, Phil." He was yelling into his cellphone. "That's the third delay this month. You got any idea how much that's gonna cost me?"

He pulled off his white hard hat and threw it angrily down the trailer steps, the helmet spinning dizzily in the sloppy mud and glowing eerily in the giant work lights that flooded the site. "No, I can't wait until next week. Concrete's arriving later this morning and I can't pour the goddamn concrete without rebar."

He shook his head, fumbling in his pocket and then pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "No, Phil. This is your last chance. You knew this was a deadline job when you took it. Why the fuck do you think I'm here talking to you in the middle of the goddamned night? Either that rebar, as ordered, is on site at 7 a.m. or you don't do another penny of business with me or any of my trades. Ever."

He slammed the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. Tapping a cigarette from the packet, he jammed it in his mouth, then searched his pockets for his lighter.

"Here." Sam climbed up the steps, pulled out a lighter and flicked it on, the flame flaring brightly. The man leaned forward, dipping his cigarette into the flame, and took a long drag. He stood up straight and nodded. "Thanks."

Sam nodded.

The construction boss took another drag on his cigarette. "You're a little early, aren't you?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not part of your crew."

"Then, sorry, man, but you really shouldn't be here." The foreman pointed to Sam's head and feet. "No hard hat, no steel-toed boots. That's a few thousand in fines for me if the Safety Commission catches you on site."

Sam smiled. "And your hard hat?" He pointed to the white helmet lying upside down in the mud at the bottom of the trailer steps. "What's it protecting down there?"

"Wiseass." The construction boss brushed past Sam and clumped down the rough wooden steps, picking up his hard hat and making a half-hearted attempt to wipe off the dirt with his sleeve. "Just having a disagreement with one of my trades. Jackass threw me some bullshit about a world-wide shortage of rebar, then tried to jack up the price."

Sam chuckled, following him down the steps. "Shortage, huh? Funny, and I found this just lying around."

The construction boss barely had a chance to look puzzled before Sam lifted the iron bar he held and swung it viciously. Sam felt bone shatter as the bar connected with the man's head. He crumpled immediately, too stunned by the first blow to lift his hands to protect himself from further attack. Sam swung the bar again and again, the blows still raining down on his victim long after he stopped moving.

Breathing heavily, Sam dropped the murder weapon in the mud beside his victim. He smiled when he noticed the cigarette on the ground a few feet from the dead man. The end still burned brightly, a thin trail of smoke spiraling upward. He crouched down and was reaching for the cigarette when he heard footsteps behind him.

Sam spun around. A man about six feet tall stood about 10 feet away. A lightweight tan trench coat fell open over his suit underneath. He shook his head disapprovingly as his eyes studied the dead man beside Sam. "You do sloppy work. What if I was a cop?"

Sam's gaze stayed fixed on the man, even as he reached for the bloodied rebar beside him, his fingers curling around the steel bar before he slowly stood up. His mouth twisted into a cold smile. "I do the kind of work that gets noticed by those whose attention I'm trying to get. Guess it worked, didn't it … Connor?"

Connor's cool façade cracked briefly at the use of his name. He stared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as if trying to place his face. He took a step closer. "First the judge, then the lawyer," he motioned with his head toward the body on the ground, "now him. The hit list tells me exactly who's calling the shots."

Sam laughed. "Clever boy. That's why he keeps you around, isn't it? That, and he's too feeble to do his own dirty work these days." He glanced down at the body in the mud, then smiled again at Connor. "I'll give you three guesses who's next."

Connor's face hardened. "I don't need three guesses."

Sam laughed again. "No, don't suppose you do." His smile faded, his expression deadly. "But he should know this. It won't be a stranger who takes him out."

Connor's expression never changed as he pulled a gun from a holster under his left arm, pointed it at Sam and fired.

Sam felt blinding pain as the bullet slammed into his forehead, then nothing.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam startled awake. The room was spinning and two Deans hovered above him. The two Deans became four, circling in a kaleidoscopic haze. His brother's voice sounded tinny and distant, like he was inside a tunnel, and his words were unintelligible.

Sam screwed his eyes closed as pain flared in his back, battling his pounding headache for his attention. He bit back a cry, burying his face in his pillow and wrapping an arm protectively around his middle.

A strong hand suddenly clasped Sam's right biceps. He forced open his eyes and the four Deans slowed their dizzying circle, then blended to become two. The two became one as the haze lifted from Sam's head, the pain in his back faded and his headache ratcheted down to a dull ache.

His brother's voice was now free of distortion. "Sam. Snap out of it."

The room finally stopped spinning but it was too late for Sam's stomach. "Sick …"

Dean grabbed a trash can from under the nightstand and shoved it in front of his brother as Sam rolled to the edge of the bed. Dean grimaced as Sam emptied what little he'd eaten that day into the bin, then continued heaving long after there was nothing left to throw up. When the dry heaves subsided, he collapsed back onto his pillow.

"Nasty." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder reassuringly. "Stay put." He took the trash can and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam heard the toilet flushing, then the bath tap running. His brother reappeared a few moments later, handed him a damp facecloth and replaced the now clean trash can at the side of the bed, "just in case."

Sam nodded, pulling himself up and leaning back against the headboard before scrubbing the damp towel over his face.

Dean studied Sam worriedly. "Seizure equals vision, right?"

Sam nodded. "Another murder."

Dean passed Sam a bottle of water, then sat down on the edge of his own bed. "Another lawyer?"

"No." Sam dropped the facecloth on the nightstand, squeezed his eyes closed and raked his fingers through his hair. "Construction worker. Foreman, I think."

Dean canted his head quizzically. "Well that breaks pattern."

Sam nodded, then twisted the lid of the bottle of water and took a long drink. "He wasn't stabbed either. I … the killer … bashed his head in with an iron bar." The nausea returned as the image of the murder played out in a loop in his head.

"Son of a..." Dean's eyes flashed angrily. "Any idea who the victim is?"

"No." Sam closed his eyes as he searched the images in his head for something that might identify the man. "It's a construction site, it's night, it's muddy. But, um….."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Someone else was there."

"Who?"

Sam shook his head. "A man named Connor. He showed up just after the murder, but it's like he was expecting it. Like he knew this construction guy was next on the list."

Dean sat up straighter. "An accomplice?"

Sam shook his head. "No. He didn't know the killer – but said he knew who hired him." He took another drink of water, grimacing at the bitter taste of bile still lingering in his mouth.

Dean leaned toward his brother. "_Please_ tell me he said his name."

"No such luck." Sam put the almost empty bottle of water on the nightstand. "The killer just taunted him, then Connor shot him in the head."

Dean scowled as he glanced from Sam to the trash can. "You felt it, didn't you? The bullet, I mean."

Sam nodded.

"Damn it, Sammy." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "But we've got a lot more pieces of the puzzle now. A few more and we'll know this bastard's name."

"And how to get rid of him."

"Yeah." Dean smiled at his brother, then glanced at the clock, which read 4:48 a.m. "Look, if you're up for it, I say we hit the road. We leave now, we could be in L.A. before lunch."

"I'm up for it." Sam threw off the covers and pulled his legs out of bed. "Let's go."

xxxXXXxxx

Despite Sam's protests that he was fine, he slept through the first three hours of the trip, waking as Dean pulled into a gas station just over the California state line. He turned down Dean's offer of coffee, opting for a bottle of water.

As Dean steered the Impala back onto the road, Sam fired up his laptop, using the satellite connection to tap into the Internet. He then scoured the online pages of the L.A. newspapers, looking for any update on the murder of lawyer T.J. Renton, or any mention of a construction worker being beaten to death.

Dean took a sip of his coffee and glanced over at Sam. "Anything useful?"

Sam shook his head. "No. If these visions are happening in real time, they might not know about it yet."

"How d'you even know where to look?"

Sam sighed. "I don't – really. But the vision hit just before 5 a.m. in Arizona. The security lights of the construction site were still on, meaning, wherever the murder took place, it wasn't daybreak yet…"

Dean nodded, following his train of thought. "And, since most of the country at that time would be in daylight, we're looking at some place in the western U.S., most likely Pacific time zone."

"Yup." Sam's gaze was again locked on the laptop. "And since all leads right now point to L.A., I'm concentrating on central California."

Dean pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, urging the car to go faster. "Okay, recap: Murder No. 1, the judge, was in Scottsdale and the killer, Donald Chapman, was from…?"

"Twin Falls, Idaho."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Murder No. 2, the lawyer, T.J. Renton, was at the golf club in L.A.."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, the Bel-Air Country Club. Second killer, Jack Munroe, is from…" He scanned the article in front of him. "… Eagle Point, Oregon."

Dean's eyes flashed as he glanced at Sam. "That's four people, four states involved. Add to that the cabin and the motels we've stayed in - how the hell is he covering such a wide area?"

Sam shook his head. "Dunno – but I know one place to start asking questions." He tapped a few more keys on his laptop.

"Where?"

Sam pulled out his phone, dialing the number he'd found online. "We make an appointment to see lawyer T.J. Renton's partner."

xxxXXXxxx

The first stop in L.A. was at a gas station to refuel the car and use the restrooms to change into suits for their appointment with Dale Anders.

Anders was the junior partner in T.J. Renton's law firm who acted as point man on cases the semi-retired Renton had continued to take on right up until his death, and the golf partner who'd witnessed his mentor's murder. Since he was a criminal prosecutor, someone who worked regularly with the LAPD, the brothers left their police IDs in the trunk and again posed as insurance investigators, this time representing the Bel Air Country Club where Renton's murder had taken place, tasked with assessing any liability on the club's part.

Sam drew on his law school background while dealing with the lawyer, and Dean had been suitably impressed. Had fate not screwed over their family, his little brother would have made a damn fine lawyer.

Anders had been blunt, Sam calm, conciliatory yet guarded. Dean listened fascinated as each played the game – each offering a little information in the hopes of getting the other to divulge something more. Anders, in his early 40s, had 15 years experience on Sam, but the younger Winchester matched him parry for parry.

When Dean had raised the possibility of a connection between Renton's murder and Judge Matthews' death, Anders confirmed that the two had known each other, were collectively responsible for thousands of convictions over their lengthy careers and that many of those convicted might still be carrying grudges. However, he also questioned how the murders could be related when the police had told him they could find no traceable ties between the two killers. Ultimately, the brothers left the lawyer's office with little new information.

Dean squinted against the bright sun and loosened his tie as they pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside. "We're no further ahead than when we went in there. What now?"

Like Dean, Sam pulled loose his tie, popped the top button on his shirt, then stuck his hands in his pockets as they walked down the street toward the car. "Gut feeling tells me we're looking for someone Renton and Judge Matthews convicted, someone out for revenge." He mentally sifted through the information they'd collected. "We need to get a list of everyone they put behind bars, pick out the ones who are dead and go from there."

Dean shook his head. "That's gonna be some long-assed list."

Sam nodded. "But I think the construction guy is the key. If we can figure out who he is and how he fits into the puzzle, it'll narrow down the list and, if we're lucky, identify the killer."

Dean screwed up his face. "And that means research, right?"

Sam smiled. "Fraid so."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Let's go find a motel and hit the books. At least we can get out of these monkey suits."

Across the street a pair of keen eyes tracked the brother's movements. Both Winchesters were oblivious to the camera pointed at them, the shutter opening and closing rapidly as it captured their images as they walked by.

xxxXXXxxx

"Keep the change, dude." Dean kicked closed the motel room door, balancing a plastic container of salad and a six-pack of beer on top of the pizza box that had just been delivered.

"Yo, Sam. A little help here before…" He stopped mid-sentence as the tension radiating from his brother hit him. "Sam?"

Sam was sitting at the small table in front of the window, his laptop open in front of him. He clicked his phone closed, putting it slowly down on the table as he stared at the neatly grouped pieces of paper taped to the wall.

The top three were each headed with a murder victim's name, with 'John Doe' substituting for the yet-be-identified construction boss. The bottom three were each headed with the name of the killer, with John Doe's murderer listed only as Killer #3. Each name was followed by a list of bullet-point information – details they knew when they arrived in L.A. and those they had gathered over the course of the afternoon.

Since checking into the motel, they had spent the day scouring the Internet for information and making phone calls to police and family members. Sam had tracked the killers, Dean the victims. Then, with Sam still on the phone with Donald Chapman's wife, Dean had ordered dinner, then called Bobby, filling him in and asking for his help to find something, anything, to protect Sam until they could permanently sever the link with the spirit. He'd hung up only when the pizza arrived, ready to compare notes with his brother.

Sam had been quiet all afternoon, as he often was when in full research mode, but something had changed while Dean was on the phone.

Dean's stomach lurched. "The voices back?"

Sam shook his head but continued to stare at the wall.

Dean dropped the pizza box on the end of the bed, grabbed the six-pack and pulled two cans free of the plastic rings, offering one to Sam. When his brother made no move to take it, he put it on the table next to the laptop. Dean popped the top on his own beer and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."

Sam's gaze fell from the wall to the floor. "National media picked up on the last murder but we still don't have a name for the victim. Cops are having a hard time finding his family. Won't release his name until they can officially notify next of kin."

Dean studied Sam intently. "You try calling the cop in charge of the case again?"

Sam nodded. "He's still out in the field. Calls to his cell are going straight to voicemail. I've left messages."

Dean took a sip of his beer. "Skip to what's bothering you, Sam."

Sam looked up at his brother. "I got the name of John Doe's killer." He glanced at the open notebook beside his computer. "Harley Newton, 27, of Aspen, Colorado. No known connection to either Judge Matthews or T.J. Renton.

"Newton was a star athlete, seemed destined for the U.S. snowboarding team until he got sick. Kidney failure. He'd been on dialysis for the past couple of years waiting for a transplant. Underwent one three months ago. Family says he was showing real progress then, three days ago, he just disappeared. They filed a missing person report but, like the first guy, the next they heard about him was when he made the national news for killing the construction worker."

Dean stared at Sam. There was a haunted expression in his brother's eyes that set Dean even more on edge. "What aren't you telling me?"

Sam ran both hands through his hair, closing his eyes and breathing out audibly. "The second killer is an unlikely a suspect as Chapman or Newton. Jack Monroe. 35. A teacher in Eagle Point, Oregon. He's an average Joe who's been on sick leave for the past year."

Dean cradled his beer in both hands as he stared at Sam. "Chapman and, uh, Newton had been sick too. What was wrong with this guy?"

"Like Newton, he suffered from kidney failure." Sam looked up at Dean. "Underwent a transplant three months ago. Had been recovering at home since."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Two of the three guys underwent a transplant?"

"No." Sam pointed to the paper bearing Donald Chapman's name. "All three. The cops I spoke to in Idaho glossed over one piece of information. Chapman didn't just have lung cancer surgery – he had a double lung transplant – three months ago."

"All had transplants around the same time?"

Sam shook his head. "Not around the same time: at the same time. Three different states – but all within 24 hours."

Dean sat up straighter. "So their donor organs..."

Sam nodded. "Likely came from the same donor."

Dean pushed himself to his feet and began pacing as the horrific implications of what they were dealing with sank in. "So the donor is the real killer?" Dean put down his beer and kneaded the back of his neck. "You're telling me we're looking for a pissed-off spirit who possesses the recipients of his donor organs? Dude, that is sick on so many levels."

Sam looked like he was about to throw up.

Dean's frown deepened. "There's more?"

Sam traced his finger distractedly around the rim of his unopened can of beer and Dean could see his hand was shaking.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallowed and lifted his eyes to meet Dean's. His voice was steady but barely audible. "My surgery was three months ago, Dean."

Dean started. "What? But…Oh God…"

All the puzzle pieces that Sam had laid out suddenly clicked together. His visions, his connection to the killer – everything suddenly made sense.

After Sam had torn the ligaments in his knee, he had been offered two options for surgical repair. The first was a graft using part of the tendon from his own leg. Given the extent of injury, however, his surgeon had recommended against it, saying it could further weaken and destabilize the knee they were trying to strengthen.

Instead he recommended an allograft or use of donor tissue. Dr. Tynan had patiently and exhaustively explained all the benefits and risks of using cadaver tissue. After a long discussion with Dean and Doc, weighing both medical and supernatural implications, Sam had agreed the allograft was the best option.

"No…no, no, no." Dean shook his head, trying to figure out how the Winchesters had drawn fate's short straw yet again. "We took precautions. Doc found out who the donor was – some poor schlub from the suburbs who died of a brain aneurysm. About as vanilla as they come. And then she carried the graft into the OR, read the incantation Bobby gave us to purify it. No way is that what's tying you to the killer."

Sam looked up at his brother. "So all four of us had transplants at the same time, all four of us are tied to this killer, and that's just a coincidence?" The sarcasm couldn't hide the fear.

"It…" Dean stared incredulously at his brother. Sam was right. And that meant the graft that had saved his brother's knee and his ability to walk normally now bound him permanently to a murderous spirit.

Dean felt helpless. Fucking helpless. To get rid of an angry spirit, you salted and burned the physical remains. But how was he supposed to do that when part of the physical remains were now part of his brother? Part of all the other recipients. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, shock taking his legs out from under him. "What the hell did we miss?"

Sam stared unseeing at the notes taped to the wall, his right hand resting on his knee, clawing at the denim of his jeans as if subconsciously trying to dig out the graft that linked him to the killer. He jumped when Dean's hand covered his.

"We'll figure this out, Sammy. I promise you that."

"How?" Fear and frustration ignited an anger simmering just beneath the surface, and Sam lashed out. "How the hell are we gonna fix this? Something went wrong… and now it's part of me. _He's_ part of me."

Sam's eyes shifted from hazel to deep green, as if the intensity of his emotions deepened the color. Dean leaned forward, closing his hand over his brother's. He could feel Sam's hand tremble under his, sense the anger his brother was fighting so hard to contain.

He lifted his hand and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt. "You're pissed, you're scared, I get that. But you can't let this bastard get to you, man. Throw something if it makes you feel better. Hell, take a swing at me." He pulled Sam closer. "You're stronger than he is. You've already proved that by saving my sorry ass. Just hang on to that while we figure this out."

Abruptly, Sam pulled free of Dean's hold, grabbed his unopened beer from the table and threw it hard. It flew across the room, smashing into the end wall and exploding in a shower of foam across the faded wallpaper.

He stared at Dean, wild-eyed, his chest heaving from the physical release of pent-up fear and anger.

Dean held his gaze. "Better?"

Sam said nothing, just nodded curtly.

"Good." Dean pushed himself to his feet, squeezing Sam's shoulder as he walked past him. He frowned at the large wet patch on the wall, the beer still trickling down toward the floor. "Otherwise that was a waste of a perfectly good beer."

There was no eyeroll or smartass comeback like Dean had hoped but there was a spark of determination in Sam's eyes that had been missing moments earlier.

Sam raked both hands through his hair. He stared down at his knee. "I need to call Doc…find out what happened, get her to schedule surgery so-"

"Whoa, Sam. Surgery? No." _Surgery_. The word ripped Dean in two, his need to sever the connection between his brother and this spirit in a tug of war with the vivid memories of Sam fighting his way through rehab. "There's gotta be another way."

"How?" Sam's eyes blazed angrily as he pushed himself up to face Dean. "How the hell are we gonna stop him, Dean? This bastard lives on through every donor recipient out there. I'm one of the lucky ones. They _can_ cut this out of me. What the hell can the heart recipient do?" How we gonna protect him or her?"

Dean felt sick. God, how many other innocent people were now tied to this killer? How many potential puppets were there in his quest for vengeance? He swallowed and shook his head. "No. I'm not buying it. We're missing something. Doc's too damn careful…no way did she give us the wrong name."

He pushed himself up, grabbing his phone and handing it to Sam. "Use my phone to call, Doc, get her to look into this; find out what happened. I'll use your phone, call Bobby again, and talk to the cop if he calls back with an ID on the latest victim. We get that name, hopefully we see how all this fits together."

Sam stopped dialing and looked up at his brother. "What the hell are we gonna do, Dean?"

Dean forced his best reassuring smile. "Take it one step at a time, Sammy. Just like rehab."

xxxXXXxxx

The old man stared down at the contracts laid out on the desk in front of him. The words blurred and he pulled off his reading glasses in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as he screwed his eyes closed.

He hated getting old. As much as he tried to deny it, his body was slowing down, weakening. He slid open his desk drawer and curled his fingers around the Desert Eagle it held. His anger deepened as he stared at the gnarled hand holding the gun. It pissed him off that a weapon he once used simply to instill fear or cause pain was now his chief means of protection. Age had robbed him of his weapon of choice, his fists. Once beefy arms had grown flabby; his stomach, once taut, toned and capable of taking a punch and barely winding him, had become soft and doughy.

Golden years, my ass, he thought bitterly, slamming the drawer closed.

His annoyance deepened at the soft knocking on his office door. "What?"

The ornate pewter knob twisted as the heavy oak door was pushed open. The kid, Danny, was standing there. Barely 25, he'd been brought into the company a year ago. He was a volatile mix of brawn and brains with a temper quicker than the old man's own in his prime; all valuable assets given what they asked him to do to earn his pay. But part of him couldn't help resenting the kid because he was, well, a kid. He had youth, strength, stamina – all things age had taken from him.

Danny's visit also meant bad news. Connor always sent the kid to deliver the message when things weren't going well.

Danny held up the envelope he was carrying. "You should see these."

The old man's graying eyebrows peaked inquisitively. He motioned for the younger man to come forward. "Hurry up. Show me."

Danny moved forward, pulling a large photograph from the envelope and laying it down on the desk in front of his employer. "This was taken two days ago in front of the judge's home in Scottsdale. Do you recognize either of these men?"

The old man tilted up the photograph to get a better look. The two men in the photo were young, no more than thirty he would guess. The shorter of the two, his sandy hair cut short and spiky, carried himself in a way that told the old man he could handle himself in the face of trouble. The black eye and bruised forehead confirmed that he and trouble were well acquainted. The taller one seemed less cocky but there was still something dangerous about him, something he couldn't quite place. He shook his head. "Never seen them before. Who are they?"

Danny swallowed. "We're not sure. A lot of information we're getting doesn't add up. We're looking into it but…." He reached into the envelope and withdrew a second photograph, again placing it in front of his boss, to the right of the first photo. "This was taken in L.A. this morning." The photo showed a busy city street, the sidewalk full of people, but a red, grease pencil circle framed the same two men. "They left Renton's law firm just before noon."

The older man sat up straighter. "If they're the hired guns we're looking for, why would they meet with Renton's partners?"

Danny shrugged curtly. "Like I said, a few things don't add up. But they're no cops – instinct tells me that."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Find them. And do it fast. I want answers."

"Yes, sir." Danny turned on his heel and quickly left the room.

The old man stared again at the photos, his finger tracing around the grease pencil ring that encircled the two men.

He smiled and his eyes glittered dangerously. "Sorry, Elias. I'm one step ahead of you as always. This is another fight you're destined to lose."

xxxXXXxxx

Doc had been devastated by Sam's news.

"Oh God. That can't be. Everything's coded by numbers. I double checked. I tripled checked…" Her voice caught. "But if I transposed one somewhere…I'll never forgive myself if-"

"Doc, there's no blame here." The initial shock had worn off and Sam was focused solely on identifying the killer. "Right now, we just need to find out what happened…who all the transplant recipients are connected to. If you could just-"

"I'll get right back to you the second I find out anything." Her voice softened. "You hang in there, you hear me."

"I will. Thanks." Sam hung up the phone, placed it on the table and rubbed his chest subconsciously. It wasn't the first time he'd asked Doc for help with the organ registry. When Dean was electrocuted and his doctor had said his heart was irreparably damaged, that there was no hope, Doc had gotten Dean's name added to the heart transplant registry. She'd worked diligently behind the scenes to get him bumped up the list, even as Sam took Dean to Nebraska to see faith healer Roy LeGrange.

Sam dragged his hand absently over his injured knee, then froze as a sudden memory hit. He sat up straight, turned to his computer and began rapidly tapping keys.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean was wrapping things up with the cop when he saw Sam turn quickly to his computer. He knew the look. His brother had just had a brainwave about something.

Dean turned his attention back to the police officer on the other end of the line. "You've been a huge help, Dan. Thanks to you, I might actually put a dent in this case and see my wife before the weekend. Take care."

He clicked shut his phone and moved toward Sam, whose eyes were still glued to his laptop. "What did you just figure out, Sammy? I could see the lightbulb over your head from the other side of the room."

Sam's eyes remained on the computer. "After talking with Doc, I was thinking about Roy LeGrange and then it suddenly clicked why that strange language the spirit uses is familiar."

Dean's eyebrows quirked. "I think you skipped a few steps 'cause I'm not following."

Sam turned to face Dean. "Remember that ancient book I found in Roy's library? The one Sue Anne was using, written by the priest who went dark side?"

Dean nodded. "The one she used to bind the reaper, yeah. What about it?"

"The incantations this spirit is using, they're in the language referenced in that book." Sam shook his head. "It's black magic, Dean. But where Sue Anne bound the reaper to her, forced it to do her bidding, this guy bound his spirit to his organs so he could take control of the recipients. He must have planned this all out before he died."

Dean scowled. "So, what? He knew he was going to kick the bucket so he set up this whole 'revenge from the other side' plan?"

Sam shrugged. "I think it's more likely he knew someone was gonna kick the bucket out from under him and wanted a back-up plan in place."

"Oh man, that's twisted." Dean sat down on the bed. "He knows he's got a target on his back, so he signs his donor card and then, if someone takes him out..."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "And it wouldn't matter who got the organs, or where the recipients were – he has a physical link to them so he'd be able to take control. Explains why the hitmen are from all over the place – the organs went to the highest priority, best match, wherever they were."

"This is one sick son of bitch we're dealing with." Dean frowned. "But how'd you know about the language? I thought we burned Sue Anne's book with the rest of her dark arts crap."

Sam nodded. "We did. But Bobby has a copy. It came up in a conversation a while back and I borrowed it for a bit, copied some passages into my journal for future reference. I just didn't put two and two together until I was thinking about the donor registry."

Dean rolled his eyes. "The mind of geek is a scary place." He stared at his brother who had now turned back to his computer. "So any idea what he's saying?"

Sam shook his head. "Not specifically – I think he keeps trying different incantations to try to take full control. If one doesn't work, he tries another. I remember certain words, some phrases that he used repeatedly. Maybe if I figure out exactly what he's saying…" He swallowed. "…I'll figure out a way to stop him taking control over me like he did with the others." He stopped typing and turned back to Dean. "What about the cop? Do we have a name yet for the construction worker?"

"Yeah." Dean grabbed the notebook he'd been scribbling in while talking to the police officer investigating the case. "Construction dude's name is Thomas Gibson of Brentwood, California. He was overseeing a mall project north of San Francisco and that's where he was killed. His wife and kids are on vacation in the Grand Canyon, hence the difficulty reaching them and the delay releasing his name."

Sam nodded. "I'll cross-reference his name with the lawyer and the judge, see what the computer spits out. You talk to Bobby again?"

Dean passed him his notebook. "Yeah, but I had to hang up on him when the cop came through on call waiting. I'll call him back now, fill him in. You keep doin'…," he waved his hand at the computer, "whatever it is you're doin'."

Bobby answered on the second ring. "_Yeah_?"

"Hey, Bobby." Dean quickly filled him in on the latest developments.

"_How's Sam holdin' up_?"

"Okay." Dean glanced again at his brother, at the rigid way he sat hunched over his computer. "For now anyway." Dean's jaw clenched. "Damn it, Bobby, this shouldn't be happening. I thought we covered our asses with that ritual you gave Doc. That was supposed to purify the graft, right? That should've worked no matter who the donor was."

"_It should, but_ n_ow that we know dark magic is likely in play, it's a bit like bolting the barn door shut when the horse is already in the next county_." Bobby sighed. "_But I think on some level it is protecting Sam – maybe it's part of the reason this spirit hasn't been able to take him over the way it did with the others_."

"But it's not enough." Dean was pacing at the base of the beds. "It's kicking the crap out of him, mentally and physically. We need to shut the son of a bitch out until we can figure out a permanent solution."

"_I'm gonna re-read my copy of that book Sam mentioned, see if that offers anything_."

"And 'til then?"

There was long pause on the other end of the phone as Bobby weighed their options. "_Well, salt circles won't work, cause the spirit would be inside it with Sam; anti-possession charms are no good 'cause they're meant to hold off demons_..."

"Bobby …"

"_I know_." Bobby cleared his throat. "_Leave it with me. I'll get back to you as soon as I've got something. Tell Sam to hang tight – and look out for your brother_."

"Always do." Dean clicked off the phone and dropped it on the bed. He frowned when he realized that Sam seemed frozen in place, staring at the computer screen. "Sam?" Icy fingers worked their way up his spine. "What the hell is it now?"

Sam didn't move.

"Sam!"

The younger Winchester jumped at Dean's raised voice.

Dean moved quickly beside his brother. "I know that look and it's not good. What is it now?"

Sam swallowed. "I've got an ID on the, um, apparition."

Dean's eyebrows peaked. "That's a good thing, right?"

Sam looked up at his brother. "Yeah. There's just one major glitch with our theory – he's not dead."

**To Be Continued**………

**A/N**: _I'm biting my nails over this chapter so I'd love to know what you think. I'm also busy tweaking the next chapter so, fingers crossed, it'll be up Monday or Tuesday. Thanks again for reading. _


	6. Chapter 6

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N: **_More answers to big questions lie ahead, but seasoned with a new wrinkle or two. :) __A huge thanks to everyone for reading, for your comments and guesses – I'm incredibly grateful. To my betas, the Always Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story._

**CHAPTER 6**

Dean stared at his brother in disbelief. "You wanna repeat that."

"The _spirit_ I've been seeing, the voice I've been hearing…" Sam's hand curled into a fist at the side of his computer. "According to what I just found, his name is Elias Gaston – and he's alive."

"How the hell is that possible?"

"I…" Sam sat staring at the computer in shock.

Dean sank down into the chair opposite his brother. "Walk me through what you just found out."

Sam cleared his throat and frowned at the computer screen. "The L.A. newspapers and TV archives have thousands of entries for cases involving both Judge Matthews and T.J. Renton, but when I add the construction foreman's name into the mix, the list gets a whole lot shorter."

Dean leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "What'd he do? Bury someone in concrete under one of his buildings?"

Sam shook his head. "He was the jury foreman in a murder trial 15 years ago – a trial with Abner Matthews on the bench and T.J. Renton prosecuting."

Dean mentally sorted through those facts. "So, since all three have been wiped out and are tied together by your visions, I'm guessing that a) they got a conviction and b) this Gaston was the one on the hot seat?"

Sam nodded. "Gaston and a Michael Durrell were partners in a cargo shipping firm. Each was charged with first-degree murder, accused of killing a third partner – a guy named Sonny Smith. It's pretty grim stuff. Smith starting doing business under the table, keeping the profits for himself, until the other two found out about it. He disappeared, then washed ashore a few days later.

"There was barely enough left to identify but the coroner was able to determine that he'd been beaten, shot and then dumped in the water – while he was still alive. Official cause of death was drowning."

"Ouch." Dean sat back in his seat. "This case would make a lot more sense if Smith was our pissed-off spirit. He sure as hell had good reason to seek revenge."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Trust me – so does Gaston."

Dean's eyebrow peaked inquisitively. "Because…"

"Because he took the fall solo. Durrell walked on a technicality; didn't serve a day behind bars." Sam turned his laptop around so Dean could see the screen. "I also found this old news footage of Gaston going into court during his trial. He's definitely the apparition – or whatever he is – I've been seeing." He shuddered as he hit the _play_ button for the video. "I'd recognize that face, and that voice, anywhere."

Dean stared at the video. Gaston was tall with lank, dark hair that featured a distinctive silver streak over his right eye. His face was expressionless as he pushed his way through a crowd of reporters to climb the steps to the courthouse. He smiled coldly when a reporter asked, "The evidence is piling up against you, Mr. Gaston. Any plans to change your plea to guilty?"

Gaston paused for a moment, turning to face the journalist who'd posed the question, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Only a guilty man should admit guilt. I've done nothing wrong."

Dean snorted. "I notice he didn't say he didn't do it." He turned back to Sam. "And this guy is still alive?"

Sam nodded. "He got a life sentence for the murder and he's been in Pelican Bay maximum security prison in northern California since 1992."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Then how the hell is he haunting you, not to mention making others kill, if he's not dead?"

Sam sat back, raking his fingers through his hair. "We know dark magic's involved. Best guess – some kind of astral projection, some kind of spell work. But, whatever it is, he can't be the organ donor."

Dean looked over at Sam. "And if that means you're not physically tied to that son of a bitch, that's the best news I've had since this whole nightmare started."

Sam ran his fingers over his knee. "Yeah, but the three killers and me, we all received donor organs or tissue, likely from the same person. No way is that just a coincidence."

"No." Dean scowled. "You sure Gaston's still alive?"

Sam shrugged. "I need to call the prison and get a verbal confirmation but, from the prisoner rolls I tapped into – yeah. As of yesterday, he was still in Pelican Bay."

"Just freaking great," Dean muttered. "We're back to square one."

"Not quite." Sam closed the news footage file and then turned back to Dean. "His former partner Durrell has to be high on Gaston's hit list. We can at least warn him, stop Gaston from committing another murder."

Dean snorted. "Durrell sounds like he's just as big a scumbag as Gaston. Getting rid of him might be doing the world a favor. The only part I don't like is letting Gaston use some innocent schmuck to do his dirty work." His eyes blazed as he made eye contact with Sam. "And, just so we're clear, that _innocent schmuck_ sure as hell won't be you."

That raised a small smile.

The phone in Dean's hand started ringing. He glanced down at the caller ID to see Doc's name displayed and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey Doc."

"_Dean_?" Doc was in full worry mode. "_Sam okay_?"

Dean realized he was using his brother's cell. "Hanging in there. I just grabbed his phone."

"_Oh_." Doc sounded relieved. "_Well_, _I don't know what's going on, big picture, but there was no mistake as far as the identity of the donor. The man's name was Nick Haskell. He was 37, a civil engineer, left a wife and two kids. He died of a brain aneurism. He_-"

"Doc." Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Sam ID'd the apparition he's been seeing. It's not this Haskell dude; it's a guy named Elias Gaston, a con serving a life sentence for murder. And, here's the real kicker – technically, he's not an apparition because Gaston's alive."

"_What? How is that possible?_"

Dean exhaled loudly. "Sam's best guess in some kind of dark magic-fuelled astral projection. We just don't know how he's making the connection." He frowned as the line went silent. "Doc? You still there?"

"_Sorry – yes_." Doc rustled some papers. "_What did you say the name of apparition, or whatever, is?_"

"Gaston. Elias Gaston."

There was another pause, then Doc's voice sped up. "_His name's on the list, Dean. He's not a donor – he's an organ recipient_."

Dean's eyes darted to Sam, who was listening intently. "Gaston _is_ tied into this; he's a transplant recipient." Sam's eyes widened as Dean pulled the phone back to his mouth. "Hang on Doc, I'm gonna put you on speaker so Sam can hear this." He clicked the button and set the phone on the table. "Go ahead."

Again, the sound of rustling papers came over the phone. "_Elias Gaston is an inmate at Pelican Bay maximum security prison. He was attacked in the prison yard, knifed in the abdomen. Surgeons tried to repair his liver but ultimately put him on the transplant registry. He was a perfect match for Nick Haskell. His surgery took place the day before Sam's in San Francisco_."

Sam leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "And he recovered?"

"_From the records I have here, yes_. _The transplant was a complete success. His health started to improve immediately. He spent a month under heavy guard at a San Francisco hospital and then was transported back to the prison infirmary_."

Dean's jaw clenched. "Nice to know the poor bastard who signed his donor card helped save the life of this piece of scum."

Doc's voice was quiet. "_Besides Sam, there are 23 other people on this list who Danny Haskell helped save. He_ -"

"Wait." Sam stared at the phone. "There were 24 donor recipients?"

"_Yes, everything from the major organs to corneal transplants, skin grafts and ligament grafts, like yours_."

Sam swallowed. "Are they all alive?"

Doc leafed through the papers. "_Other than the three tied into the murders you're investigating and the heart recipient, who died three days after the surgery when his body rejected the organ, yes_."

Sam looked up at Dean. "Well, that confirms our worst fears. That's 20 more potential puppets Gaston could use. If he can't get to me, he's just gonna go after them."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dean grabbed the back of his chair, his gaze jumping from the phone on the table to Sam. "How the hell does he know who they are? Who to go after? I mean Doc's treading in a gray area getting this information, and she's a doctor. The hospital's sure as hell not gonna hand over the names of the other recipients to some con."

Doc sighed. "_When I tried to call up this information through my usual channels, I kept running into new security protocols. I finally had to call a friend of mine at the National Organ Registry and she told me the system was hacked into just over a month ago. They traced the breach to a public server in northern California but never found the hacker_."

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam. "So, what? Gaston hired some hacker to get him the names, and now he's using the transplant recipients as a shopping list for hitmen?"

Sam leaned forward as he processed this latest information. "Gaston somehow knows black magic. Most spell work I know of requires some kind of physical connection with the target."

Dean nodded. "Like witches and their hexbags or voodoo priests and their stick-a-pin-in-me-I'm-done dolls."

"Yeah." Sam subconsciously rubbed his knee. "After his surgery, Gaston realizes he now has a physical connection to every other transplant recipient from the same donor. But he doesn't know who they are. It's like he's got the telephone, but no phone numbers."

"But, once he had the transplant list, he had his own private phone book." Dean sat back and crossed his arms. "Guess he thought that, one by one, he'd reach out to his puppet killers, pull their strings and take his revenge, while he sat in maximum security with a perfect alibi."

He looked up at Sam. "What he didn't expect was that, when he was dialing out, you'd end up listening in, like on some psychic conference call."

Sam nodded. "Guess my abilities somehow put me on the same wavelength. When he reached out, I heard him, even saw what he was doing…"

Dean's expression darkened. "But he saw you too."

Sam nodded again. "And, ever since, he's been hammering away, trying to break through, to figure out who I am…and to take over."

Dean leaned toward Sam. "But there were two wrinkles that screwed up his plans – first the protection ritual Doc used during surgery and, second, your abilities that-" His eyes widened as Sam stood up suddenly and began pacing. "What?"

Sam tapped the side of his head. "The whispers I've been hearing – it's the other transplant recipients. Because of my psychic thing, I actually hear Gaston, but to the others it may just come across as pain or white."

Doc's voice came over the phone. "_I've made a couple of calls to the doctors of the other transplant recipients. They say that, post surgery, their patients have complained of sporadic headaches, random sharp pains that don't appear tied in to the actual surgery...symptoms similar to what Sam is experiencing, although not so acute. So far, though, Sam's the only one who has suffered seizures_."

Dean glanced from the phone to his brother. "Maybe Sammy's abilities are amplifying the signal, creating some kind of, I dunno, psychic feedback that's triggering the seizures."

"_Could be_," Doc agreed. "_It's like I told you at the hospital, there's no obvious physical cause for them. You sever the connection with this Gaston, and I have every confidence the seizures will stop_."

Dean turned again to Sam. "Going back to the voices, what about the one that keeps breaking through, asking for help? Who's that? And why's he able to make himself heard when the others can't?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno, but maybe he has some psychic abilities…can sense what's going on like I can, just maybe not to the same degree."

Doc exhaled softly. "_So_,_ how do we stop this Gaston before he does any more harm_?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "If there's black magic to create the link, there's black magic to sever it." He looked up at Dean. "Right?"

"I sure as hell hope so." Dean glanced down at the phone. "Bobby's looking into that right now, although he's still working on the assumption Gaston's dead. I need to call him and catch him up."

"_What can I do_?"

Sam sank slowly into his chair. "Until we stop Gaston, we have to protect the other transplant recipients. Make sure he can't use them."

"_How_?"

Sam chewed on his knuckle. "Don't have an answer right now, but can you find out where they are so we can get hold of them if we figure out something?"

"S_houldn't be too hard to get a_ _current address on each one," Doc said. "But then what?_"

Dean smiled tightly. "We'll get back to you on that as soon as we know. Thanks Doc."

"_You need anything_ – _anything_ – _just call_."

Sam nodded. "Will do. Talk to you soon."

Dean hit the button to end the call, then picked up the phone and scrolled through the directory to Bobby's number. Their old friend answered on the second ring.

"_Still working on it, Dean. I've got spells up the wazoo if you want to exert control over another person but_-"

"New wrinkle," Dean interrupted. "Gaston's not dead – he's a transplant recipient, not the donor."

The sound of a heavy book slamming shut came across the phone. "_Well, that changes things. If this guy_-"

"Gah!" Sam slammed the heel of his hand into his temple.

"Sammy?" Dean stiffened when he saw Sam screw his eyes closed and teeter in his chair.

"I, uh ..." Sam looked up at Dean, pain etched deeply across his face. He bit back a cry as he toppled forward. "It's Gaston."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam would have fallen had Dean not lunged forward to catch him. The pain in his head flared, then subsided, quickly replaced by the sound of echoed whispers swirling in increasing volume until they were deafening. Then through the noise he heard him, the voice he had come to hate.

"_Clever boy, Sam. Figured out who I am."_ Gaston laughed softly. "_Still missing a few pieces, but give yourself a pat on the back_."

"Get out of my head."

Gaston's voice grew colder_. "Can't do that, Sammy. You're up to bat. You ready?"_

Sam ground the heels of his hands into his temples. "No."

Gaston laughed again._ "Sorry. Rhetorical question."_

"I won't…do…it."

Gaston sighed. "_Yes you will. See, a big, strapping guy like you – you're a perfect fit for the job I have in mind_." He chuckled, then began speaking again, this time in the mysterious words of the ancient, dark language he'd used to make Sam attack Dean.

Sam forced open his eyes, fighting to remain in control, as Dean's worried face blurred in front of him. He reached out, grabbing his brother's shirt and pulling Dean toward him. "Stop…him."

The pain was building again and Sam ground his teeth together to bite back a cry. He focused on his brother, both hands now fisting in the front of Dean's shirt. "Don't… let him use me." His breathing quickened as Dean slid into focus. "Whatever…you have to do."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam fell forward, his forehead slamming into Dean's chest as he fought the pain ripping through him.

Dean instinctively wrapped his arms around his brother. A memory suddenly flashed through his head, from a time shortly after their mother was killed, when their dad was crumbling under the crushing pressure of grief, guilt and the responsibility of protecting his two tiny sons from a now tangible threat of evil.

_Sam, still less than a year old, was crying inconsolably. John lifted him out of the small crib they now hauled from place to place, and held him against his shoulder, bouncing slightly at the knees and making quiet 'shushing' sounds as he patted his youngest son gently on the back. Still Sam cried, his face reddening, his tiny hands fisted in his dad's t-shirt._

_Seeing his older son looking on worriedly, John had offered a tired but reassuring smile. "It's okay, Dean. Sammy's just missing his mom."_

_Dean nodded, eyes glued to his brother. _

_John reached down and tousled Dean's hair affectionately. "We all do, don't we kiddo?"_

_Again Dean nodded. _

_John glanced down at Sam, tucking his youngest son's head under his chin. "But Sammy's too little to understand. He just knows things are different and he's scared." _

_Dean nodded solemnly, then slipped out from under his dad's hand and clambered up onto the chair beside Sam's crib. Standing on the chair, he grabbed his dad's arm for balance, then reached up to pat Sam's back as he lay against John's chest. "Don't be scared, Sammy."_

_John's eyes were glassy as he looked down at Dean. He cleared his throat. "Sit down, son."_

_Dean's face crinkled into a frown._

_John nodded reassuringly. "You can help Sammy feel better."_

_Dean nodded slowly, then dropped down into the tub-shaped chair, his legs sticking straight out in front of him. John gently lifted Sam off his shoulder and laid him against Dean's chest, his tiny knees bent in Dean's lap, his head resting on his big brother's shoulder. Dean instinctively wrapped his arms around Sam, patting him gently as he had seen his dad doing. Sam's crying slowed then faded, eventually stopping with a big, hiccupping sigh. He rolled his face back and forth across Dean's shoulder, then nestled his head under Dean's chin. He gurgled softly as he chewed on his fist, his eyes drooping sleepily._

_Dean looked up at his Dad, a slight grimace on his face. "I think he just wiped his goober on my shirt."_

_John bit back a laugh but couldn't quite hide his smile. "Yeah, but he's not crying any more. He knows he's safe with you."_

_Dean nodded, his face suddenly serious as he looked down at his brother. "I'll always keep you safe, Sammy. Always."_

Now, more than 22 years later, the brothers were caught in an eerie echo of that night: Sam again leaning against Dean, his forehead grinding into Dean's shoulder, his hands fisting in his shirt.

Dean's heart hammered wildly as he felt his brother weakening. He tightened his hold, hoping to lend Sam strength to keep fighting this latest attack, but his brother just seemed to slump more heavily against him.

"_Dean?...Dean?...What's goin' on_?"

Dean started at the sound of Bobby's voice. It was coming from the phone still clutched tightly in his hand even as he kept his arms wrapped around his brother. He pulled the phone up to his ear and swallowed. "Gaston's trying to get to Sam."

xxxXXXxxx

Gaston's voice droned on inside Sam's head, the strange words of his incantations coiling around each thought, each muscle, stealing away control. His eyes refused to open, his limbs were heavy and useless, his mind increasingly fuzzy.

He shuddered, knowing, this time, Gaston wouldn't stop until he had complete command.

Sam fought him but was weakening rapidly, each word of Gaston's incantation chipping away at his defences, breaking through, taking over muscle by muscle, thought by thought.

Sensing victory, Gaston's laughter filled Sam's head. "_So stubborn. Why cause yourself all this unnecessary pain? Just give in._"

"No."

Gaston sighed, then resumed chanting, but his words couldn't quite block out a second voice, off in the distance, calling out to Sam.

Dean. Sam strained to hear his brother, but couldn't make out his words. But he didn't need to hear them to know that Dean was urging him to fight, to hold on, to do whatever he could to stop Gaston while he did the same.

Suddenly, Sam was moving – not of his own volition, but not under Gaston's control either. Again, he knew it was Dean, hauling him to his feet, moving him over to the bed and lowering him gently onto his side. As his head sank into the pillow, Gaston's voice grew louder and clearer. "_Your brother's still alive. You are full of surprises." _His laugh was low and cold_. "But when I take control, we'll take care of that unfinished business_."

"No." Sam's protest echoed loudly inside his head but only Gaston could hear him. His voice was no longer his own.

Gaston laughed again. "_I underestimated you last time. That won't happen again, I promise you_." He resumed chanting, each word tearing at the inside of Sam's head like razor-sharp claws.

Sam cried out soundlessly, then startled as he felt far gentler hands, calloused and familiar, grip his arms and roll him onto his back. Gaston's voice thrummed on but, as consciousness began slipping away, a chill rippled through Sam, followed by a strange pressure on his chest, pushing down on his heart.

Fighting to breathe, Sam was jolted without warning by what felt like an electrical charge. He arched off the bed, lungs frozen, but the whispers in his head were suddenly silenced.

Gaston stopped chanting. "_What the…_?"

The electrical charge dissipated and Sam collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air. He was dizzy, exhausted, barely conscious. He had nothing left to fight off Gaston and yet, inexplicably, he felt the spirit's hold on him weaken.

"_No….no_." Gaston's chanting resumed, now frantic and desperate, his bewilderment quickly turning to rage as he sensed his hold on Sam wane. His voice was venomous as it faded away. "_Don't think this is over_."

And then he was gone. Sam's fingers slowly curled into a fist as he startled back to awareness. His eyes snapped open. Dean was at his side, sliding in and out of focus. Sam felt completely disoriented, his chest heaving as he fought to pull in air.

Dean reached down, cupping Sam's face in his hand, eyes studying his brother suspiciously. "Sammy? That just you in there?"

Sam swallowed, then nodded. His voice was weak. "How-"

"Thank God." Dean exhaled in relief, then turned to the side, grabbing a phone off the table. "You still there?...Yeah, looks like it worked…Yeah…yeah…okay, I'll get him to call you."

Sam listened to the one-sided conversation, blinking heavily to bring his vision back into focus. As his brother hung up, he coughed, too exhausted to lift his head off the pillow. "What…d'you…do?"

Dean twisted to stare down at him, offering a worried smile. "We figured out a way to slam the door on Gaston."

Sam nodded slowly. He had so many questions but could barely keep his eyes open.

"Sam?"

Sam heard the worry in Dean's voice, felt he brother's hand leave the side of his face then slide down to his neck where two fingers sought out a pulse. He reached up, grabbing Dean's wrist, as his eyes slid closed. "S'okay…just tired."

He felt Dean give his wrist a gentle squeeze. "You're safe – for now. Get some sleep."

Dean's words spun through Sam's head. So unlike Gaston's, his brother's deep voice was a source of strength, a source of comfort, a lifeline to hold on to as he slipped into unconsciousness.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam peeled open his eyes, blinking in confusion, unsure where he was or even what day it was. He knew only that he had a world-class hangover but no recollection of the drinking binge that caused it. His head was pounding viciously, his stomach threatening rebellion.

"Sam? You alive?"

"Think so." Sam squinted in the direction of his brother's voice, watching blearily as Dean pulled himself out of bed, stretched with a groan and then stumbled across the room toward the window.

"Good to know." Dean yawned, rubbing a hand through his hair as he yanked back the curtain to send bright sunlight spilling into the room.

Sam screwed his eyes closed and groaned loudly, throwing an arm over his face as his headache redlined. "Jerk."

Dean grimaced apologetically. "Oops."

Sam muttered something that would have been rude had it been coherent and rolled away from the door, burying his face in his pillow.

"Seriously, Sammy – you okay? Gaston still blocked out?"

Sam rolled slowly onto his back, but reached up to clap a hand over his eyes. "Yeah. Just feels like I emptied the mini-bar again."

"That bad, huh?"

Sam frowned, rubbing his hand across his forehead as he sorted through his jumbled memories of the night before. "Gaston tried to take control." He squinted up at Dean. "How did you-"

Dean was at his side now, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Relax. You fought him off long enough for Bobby to come up with something."

Sam studied his brother, looking for any sign of injury. "I didn't hurt you?"

Dean grinned. "Nah, I'm not fallin' for that trick twice."

Sam exhaled slowly, then frowned as he sat up and his t-shirt fell open. It was ripped right up the middle. "What the-"

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, had to sacrifice your shirt in the name of a little jury-rigged protection."

Sam's frown deepened as he pulled open the torn t-shirt and discovered an ornate symbol drawn on his chest, just above his heart. Beside it and beneath it were several brownish-red smudges "What the hell – is this blood?" He raised his hand to run his fingers over the marks.

"Don't." Dean moved in quickly, knocking his brother's hand away. "Like I said, it's protection. Bobby's been studying that dark arts book. Found a spell to chase Gaston away. I recited it and it shut him out. Combined with that symbol Bobby gave me to tattoo on your chest, it should keep him out."

Sam stared down at the symbol. "Tattoo?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay, I used a Sharpie. Was kinda thinking on the fly."

Sam was still studying the marks. "And the blood?"

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, pulling a face as he took in his handiwork. "Yeah, um, part of the symbol had to be drawn in blood. Bobby said it had to be yours."

Sam's gaze jumped to Dean. "It's my blood?"

Dean motioned with his head to his brother's hand. "Cut your finger." He smiled sheepishly. "Would have used mine but, like I said, it had to be yours."

"Dean." Sam had long ago lost count of the number of times his brother had taken a bullet for him, figuratively if not literally. He knew damn well there was no way Dean would hurt him intentionally unless there was no other option. He stared at the Band-aid that circled his index finger, a Band-aid he hadn't even noticed until Dean mentioned it, and snorted. "If this is the price for keeping Gaston out of my head, I'll pay gladly."

Dean cleared his throat. "Good to know. The marker's waterproof but you shower or start sweating and the bloodmarks are gonna wear off. Then you'll have to replace them." He motioned with his head toward the laptop on the table. "Just follow the design in Bobby's e-mail. As long as that symbol's in place, it should keep Gaston out of your head, at least until we can figure out a way to sever his connection for good."

Sam swallowed. "And if we can't – cut the connection permanently, I mean?"

"Then we visit a tattoo parlor – mix a little blood with the ink, make my little art project more permanent."

Sam's eyebrow peaked before he dropped his head and stared again at the symbol. "I guess a tattoo's a better option than more surgery."

Dean sighed. "I told you before, don't borrow trouble. While that thing's working, let's just concentrate on unplugging Gaston from his psychic network."

Sam still felt completely drained, but reveled in the silence inside his head. He looked over at his brother, offering a tired smile. "Thanks – for all this."

Dean grinned. "Don't thank me. When Gaston's history, you're detailing my car – inside and out – and doing my laundry. For a month." His grin faded as he studied Sam. "You still look like roadkill, dude. Don't think I've missed the fact you haven't even tried sitting up yet."

"I'm working on it." With a groan, Sam pushed himself up and slouched against the headboard. "Just gimme a minute."

"I'll give you twenty." Dean began rooting through his duffel, pulling out clean clothes. "I'm gonna take a quick shower, then, while you get ready, I'll walk down to the diner at the end of the block and get us some breakfast; should be back before you shampoo that girly hair of yours."

"Bite me." Sam grimaced as he pushed himself all the way up and threw back the covers.

Dean frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I'm thirsty." Sam massaged his temples as he sat on the edge of the bed, his headache objecting to the change in elevation.

Dean crossed the room to their cooler. "I grabbed some Gatorade from the machine by the office while you were sleeping. That do?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks." He hauled himself out of bed and stumbled over to his duffel, pulling out a clean shirt and jeans. He stared down at the torn t-shirt he wore. "Between you and the hospital, I'm running seriously low on clothes."

Dean smiled as he passed his the brother the drink. "I'd be a lot happier if it was chicks ripping them off you."

Sam snorted. "Yeah." He took the bottle of Gatorade from Dean, nodded his thanks, then crossed the room toward the table by the window.

Dean's smile slipped as he watched his brother's labored movements. "Take it slow, Sammy. Gaston kicked the crap out of you last night."

"Hopefully for the last time." Sam sank gratefully into one of the vinyl chairs. "I'm okay. Go get ready." He smiled tiredly at Dean. "I'm gonna do some research on Gaston. The faster we get rid of him for good, the better I'll feel."

xxxXXXxxx

When Dean emerged from the shower, Sam was in exactly the same position. The sports drink was half gone but his brother was still glued to the computer.

Dean studied Sam intently. He was less gray than he had been when he woke up but was still a long way from healthy. Dark circles underscored dull eyes and his broad shoulders seemed more hunched than usual.

Sensing the scrutiny, Sam looked up.

Dean broke eye contact and crossed to the bed, fighting hard to hide the worry gnawing at his insides. "You find anything?"

Sam sat back. "I'm starting to see why Gaston's so pissed."

Dean, dressed only in his boxers, pulled on a black t-shirt. "Okay, spill."

"Gaston quit school at 15, hooked up with Durrell and Smith shortly after. By the time they were arrested for Smith's murder twenty years later, each of them had a few million in the bank."

Dean whistled. "Nice trick. How'd they manage that?"

"They were partners in a company called DGS Shipping, an import/export outfit that, over the space of two decades, grew from an office in the backroom of a warehouse to a major player on the west coast. From what I've been able to dig up, they bullied their way to the top – making plenty of cash, and enemies, in the process."

Dean stepped into his jeans. "But how'd they get from BFFs to wanting each other dead?"

Sam shrugged. "Greed. Smith was the first to break ranks. He started skimming off profits. Court documents reference a couple of hospital visits for injuries that suggest Gaston and Durrell found out and…"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "…politely asked for their money back?"

Sam smiled. "Something like that. But instead of giving up, Smith got creative – set up his own sideline company and started siphoning off DGS business – keeping 100 per cent of profits for himself."

"Which led to him being 100 per cent dead." Dean grabbed a cotton shirt, pulled it on and began rolling up the sleeves as he pieced together the puzzle. "But Gaston and Durrell were sloppy and got charged with his murder…only Durrell somehow slipped the noose, leaving Gaston to take the fall solo."

"Yeah." Sam reached for the bottle of Gatorade and then sat back. "On top of that, Durrell somehow managed to buy up all of Smith's shares in DGS. As two-thirds owner, Durrell effectively shut out Gaston from any say in how the company was run. He has full control."

"Ouch." Dean sat down on the end of the bed, pulling on his socks and boots. "So Gaston's locked up and shut out of his own company…decides he wants payback." He frowned. "But how does he make the leap to black magic?" Dean reached for the ankle holster that held his silver knife, strapping it into place. "Why not just hire a hitman? Take Durrell out the good old-fashioned way?"

Sam shrugged. "He tried. Durrell did too. Over the years, police records show there were several failed attempts on each of their lives. Gaston ended up in the prison infirmary more than once, thanks to Durrell no doubt, and Durrell now has a car and house with bullet-proof glass and travels everywhere with a posse of bodyguards because of Gaston's attempts on his life."

Dean looked up, shaking his head as he pulled his jeans down over his ankle holster. "So Gaston gets creative; decides to use black magic to get his revenge. We'll deal with the 'how' later. He warms up by taking out the judge, the prosecutor and the jury foreman, who don't have any protection around them, and now he's after Durrell?"

Sam shrugged. "Good bet. Gaston has a lot of enemies. Who knows how many are on his hit list. But I think it's safe to assume Durrell is at or near the top. The others are just bonuses."

Dean grabbed his wallet from the dresser and shoved it in his pocket. "And now he knows the black magic works, that he can control the transplant recipients, make them kill for him, he'll just send one puppet after another on a suicide run. If one fails, he'll just send the next one, and so on…" Dean turned suddenly to face his brother. "And that's why he wants you for this job, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. "Why?"

"You're a hunter. All his other 'puppets' are Joe Averages – I doubt there's a lick of hunting experience between them. If he's been poking around in your head, he knows you're a trained fighter, a tracker-"

"A killer." Sam looked sick as he said the word.

"Sam." Dean's voice dropped an octave. "I'm not going there, but if Gaston tapped into bits and pieces of what we've done as hunters, he's knows you've got the best chance of taking out Durrell.

"Hey." He took a step closer to his brother once he was sure he had his full attention. "Just know this; whatever his plan is, it's not gonna work. He's not using you."

Sam ran his fingers subconsciously over the protection symbol drawn on his chest. "But if he can't get to me, he'll just go after someone else."

"Not right away." Dean's eyes burned angrily. "Something tells me he won't give up without a fight. But, as long as he can't break through, that gives us time to stop him for good." He studied Sam worriedly. "Any signs Gaston's trying to get in?"

Sam shook his head. "No Gaston, no whispers, nothing."

"Good." Dean pointed to the protection symbol on Sam's chest. "When you shower, use a bandage from the first-aid kit to cover that up. I know the marker's waterproof but it doesn't hurt to be sure. And don't forget to replace the bloodmarks." He frowned. "Maybe I'll just wait here until you're done, then we'll go to the diner together."

Sam pushed himself up, grabbing his clean clothes from the bed and the first aid kit from the dresser. "Go. I'll be fine."

His brother didn't look convinced.

Sam held his hand over the symbol. "No B.S., man. It's working." He offered a half smile. "Seriously, a plain, ordinary headache has never felt so good."

Dean nodded slowly, then moved toward the door, waving a hand to the phone that sat on the table to the left of Sam's computer. "Your phone's all charged up. I won't be gone long, 15 minutes tops, but you get so much as a whisper, you call me."

"Fine."

"Sammy."

Sam made eye contact with his brother. "I promise."

Dean nodded. "Okay. What do you want to eat?"

Sam shrugged, turning toward the bathroom. "Anything – just nothing greasy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, which is it – anything or nothing greasy."

Sam shot him a glare before disappearing into the bathroom.

Dean grinned before opening door and stepping outside. "Got it. Healthy crap it is."

The sky was clear, the sun out in full force despite the early hour. Dean stopped by the Impala to grab a pair of sunglasses then headed off down the street for the easy five-minute walk to the diner.

He pulled out his phone as he walked, dialing Bobby's number.

"_Hey, Dean. How's Sam_?"

"Protection symbol's still working, so far at least. You find anything that'll help break his connection with Gaston for good?"

Bobby sighed. "_Plenty – but nothing that doesn't require destroying the physical link_."

Dean's voice was tight. "And that's exactly what we're trying to avoid."

"_Don't give up, kid. I'm still digging – it's just a matter of time_."

Dean frowned when he realized his hand was trembling. He clenched his fist, fighting the fear, anger and frustration he'd tried so hard to keep hidden from his brother. "I hate this, Bobby. Hate the way Gaston is slowly ripping Sam apart. Hate that I can't do anything to stop it."

Bobby's voice was calm, reassuring. "_That's bull. You've been there for Sam every step of the way and, trust me, he knows it. We're almost home – don't you go fallin' apart on me in the bottom of the ninth_."

Dean exhaled audibly. "Sorry, it's just-"

"_Don't be sorry. Just keep doin' what you're doin'_."

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam's worried that if Gaston can't take control of him, he'll go after the other transplant recipients. Any way we can protect them?"

"_You mean other than draw a protection symbol on each and every one of 'em_?"

Dean snorted. "Can't see how that's gonna fly; going up to each patient and saying, 'You don't know me but, you know that voice in your head? I can shut it up if you let me draw an occult symbol on your body – in blood.'"

"_Yeah_, _there's a few logistical problems_," Bobby agreed. "_Not to mention the recipients are spread all across the country. Doc called me; she's tracking them down but, even if we could figure out a way to convince them they need the protection symbol, it would be a crap shoot whether we get to them all before Gaston does_."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "So what do we do?"

"_It's already done_." Bobby's voice was matter-of-fact. "_FBI Special Agent Robert S. Singer called up Pelican Bay prison this morning; had a chat with the warden. Told him we have a solid tip that there's a hit out on Gaston, and that he needs to toss Inmate 63966 into solitary, under 24-hour watch, until we smoke out the hitman's identity_."

Dean had to smile at that. "Good one. Gaston won't be able to do too much black magic if he's under constant watch."

"_That's what I'm counting on. It's not foolproof, but most spellwork I know of, at least for something as big as taking control of another person through psychic projection, needs symbols, charms, rituals. He starts doing any of that in solitary, it's gonna raise some eyebrows._ _Not to mention, getting him out of general population cuts him off from his mentor so hopefully he won't learn any new tricks_."

Dean frowned. "Mentor?"

"_I got access to Gaston's records since he's been incarcerated. Shortly after landing in Pelican Bay, he started hanging out with a New Orleans-born drug lord named Ti-Jean Leduc, also known as Little John. This guy is into black magic, twisted voodoo, you name it – anything that would scare the crap out of his dealers and competition to keep them in line_."

Dean nodded. "And he showed Gaston the ropes?"

"_Yeah_," Bobby said. "_Looks like they formed some kind of unholy alliance; Gaston has the money and the connections to get stuff smuggled into that prison, and stuff done on the outside, so Little John traded black magic secrets for black market perks_."

Dean gritted his teeth. "And they didn't shut him down?"

"_Typical prison crap_; _knowing about it and proving it are two different animals_."

Dean huffed out a breath. "Anyway, at least isolating Gaston buys us some time."

"_We've still gotta work fast_." Worry tinged Bobby's voice. "_Like I said, Gaston has_ _money_; _if he doesn't believe there's really a threat, he'll have his lawyers working to get him back into general population by this afternoon_. _Then all bets are off_."

"Damn it." Dean's jaw clenched. "We can't catch a freakin' break here."

"_Actually we did catch one_. _Put me on speaker so Sam can hear this_."

"Sam's back at the room – I'm on a food run." Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "But if you've got good news, spill. I sure as hell could use some."

"_Knowing this Little John's background, where's he from, what he's into, I now know what kind of dark magic we're dealing with. I've got feelers out to my contacts in Louisiana._" Bobby sounded hopeful. "_Got my fingers crossed_ _I'll have some way of severing Gaston's link before the day's out_."

"Amen to that." Dean pulled off his sunglasses as he neared the diner. "Listen, Bobby, do me a favor. Call Sam, tell him that. The sooner he gets that news, the better."

"_The protection symbol will hold, Dean_."

"I know. It's just-"

"_You're worried about your brother, I get that_." Bobby's voice softened again. "_I'll call him_…_And you hang_ _in there, you hear me_?"

"Yeah." Dean sighed. He clicked shut the phone and pushed open the diner door.

There was only one other customer inside when he got there. The woman behind the counter was in her late 40s and reminded Dean of what he envisioned his mother might look like now if she was still alive. He turned on his most charming smile and left 10 minutes later with a large container of fruit, another of yogurt and granola, a sausage and egg sandwich for himself, more doughnuts than he paid for and two large coffees.

He glanced around him as he walked back to the motel. Given the early hour, the street was deserted, only one car parked against the curb. It would soon be busy, once the stores that lined his route opened for business, but for now he had the street to himself.

Balancing the bag of food on the cardboard tray that held the two coffees, he dug out his phone from his right pocket, called up Sam's number and lifted the phone to ear.

Sam answered with a resigned sigh. "_I'm fine, Dean_."

Dean grinned. "Good, just checking in. I'm on my way back now."

"_You couldn't wait five minutes to see for yourself_."

Dean snorted. "I was only in the shower five minutes the other night. Look what happened then." He kicked himself as soon as the words came out, knowing how guilty Sam felt about the attack under Gaston's influence. "Sorry, Sammy – that didn't come out like I meant it. Bobby call?"

"Yeah. Told me about his New Orleans contacts. It's something."

"It's a good something. You know Bobby. He'll-"

A large blue sedan jolted out of the alley to Dean's right, lurching to a stop in front of him. His right hand holding the phone shot out, colliding with driver's side window as he fought to stop himself from falling forward onto the car.

"What the f…" Dean slammed his fist onto the roof of the car. "Dude, drive with your eyes open."

The passenger door of the car opened and a man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood up, his face expressionless as he reached into his jacket pocket.

Dean's heart ratcheted up a notch. Instinctively he took a few steps away from the car.

The man in the sunglasses flashed a badge. "FBI. We'd like you to come with us."

A chill danced up Dean's spine; he whirled around, the bag of food toppling from the tray, to see two men, dressed much like the man in the car, walking up behind him.

"_Dean_?" Sam's worried voice came through the phone in his hand. "_What's going on_?"

Dean's heart was pounding at the now obvious ambush. He offered the approaching men an exaggerated smile. "What seems to be problem, fellas?"

The man in front of him closed the car door and put his badge away. "Just come with us, sir."

Dean turned, so he had the car on his left and the two men on foot on his right, and backed slowly away from both, into the street. He raised his phone hand in surrender, eyes darting back and forth between the two approaching threats, but as the phone neared his mouth, he barked one simple command into it: "Do it now, Hilts."

Then instinct kicked in. Dean dropped the phone and the tray of coffees, spinning to face the two men on his right and decking the closest. As that man reeled from the solid punch to the chin, Dean kicked out his left leg, his boot catching the second man in the gut causing him to stumble back with an audible grunt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the back doors of the sedan opening and two more men climbing out. Shit. That made it five against one.

Dean knew when to cut his losses. He bolted.

But he had covered only a few yards when the man with the badge, a deceptively fast linebacker type, slammed into him from behind. Both men hit the street hard, the impact jarring loose Dean's sunglasses, tearing the knees of his jeans as he hit the road and ripping the skin from the heels of his hands as they slid along the asphalt.

A hand grabbed his hair, slamming his head into the road. Dean saw stars but, with adrenaline fueling instinct, he drove his elbow backwards, taking satisfaction in the exhaled "oof" as bone met the taut abdomen of his attacker.

His victory was short-lived; again, his head was slammed into the road. Pain exploded through his skull, his vision graying at the edges as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. A second man joined in the assault. Dean cried out unwittingly as a knee was pressed heavily into the small of his back. His arms were twisted behind him and held there, while booted feet stood on his ankles, pinning him to the ground.

Dean lifted his head sluggishly, squinting against the bright sunlight overhead to take in the silhouettes of his attackers. The ones he could see were each about Sam's height but easily outweighed his brother by about 50 pounds a piece. He struggled against their hold as one patted him down, then cursed as the stranger found, and took away, the silver knife in his ankle holster. He cursed the fact he wasn't carrying his gun.

Dean's head was now pounding in time with his heart but he offered his best smile. "Listen fellas. We got off to a bad start. How about…ow."

He jumped as he felt the sting of a needle in his neck. His captors relaxed their hold and Dean rolled onto his back, instinctively pushing himself away from the men standing around him. But whatever they'd injected him with worked fast. His body went limp, his vision blurred, the sunlight creating halos around each of the men looking down at him.

"Halos?" He snorted. "No fucking way are you angels." His voice sounded thick and slow, his tongue like it was suddenly too big for his mouth. He frowned when he realized one of the men was talking but he couldn't understand him: his words were all garbled, his voice sounding like a tape playing at the wrong speed. Dean flopped onto his stomach, trying to crawl away, but his body refused to co-operate.

Dean fought to keep his eyes open as he felt beefy arms hook under his and haul him to his feet. He slumped in their hold, rubber legs refusing to hold his weight. The men's grip shifted and he felt himself being dragged forward, his legs trailing uselessly behind as he watched the road blur beneath him. He was vaguely aware of a car door opening, of being shoved inside, his head colliding with the door frame, and then nothing.

_**To Be Continued**_………

_**A/N**__: I hope you enjoyed. I'm busy tweaking Chapter 7 and it should be up by the end of the week, as long as RL co-operates. If you have a minute or two, I'd love to hear what you think. Cheers and, again, thanks so much for reading._


	7. Chapter 7

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both __Winchester__ brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED: **_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N: **_First, an apology for the later-than-planned posting. Initially, RL got in the way then the site wouldn't allow me to upload. Fingers and toes crossed, there will be no more delays. Again, a huge thanks for all the lovely reviews, guesses and comments – I've had an absolute blast reading them. A great big hug to all of you. To my betas, the Always Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 7**

Sam froze at Dean's directive.

"_Do it now, Hilts_."

He stared at the phone in his hand, his chest tightening when Dean's phone clattered as it was dropped, that noise quickly followed by the sounds of a fight. Sam launched himself to his feet, the chair toppling over behind him as he lunged for the door, every instinct telling him to help his brother.

But training and Dean's warning quickly took over and his hand stilled on the doorknob. He leaned forward, forehead resting against the back of the door as his heart pounded against his ribs. It was the FBI. If the feds had his brother, he'd be of more use to Dean working to free him from the outside than stuck in a cell next to him, but it went against every instinct to stand there and do nothing.

Phone still pressed to his ear, he heard his brother's voice but this time it was slurred and distant. "_Listen fellas. We got off to a bad start. How about …ow_."

Sam listened frantically for any further word from Dean, any coded directive or clue that would tell him where he was being taken. But Dean said nothing, and that scared the crap out of him. When Dean was cornered, his smart mouth kicked in without fail. If he was silent, something was seriously wrong.

Sam's knuckles whitened as he slammed his fist against the door in frustration. He strained to hear the voices on the other end of the phone as they moved away from Dean's dropped cell.

One suddenly came through clearly. "Get him in the car before someone sees us. I'll call in; tell them we've got the first one. And go grab his phone."

_First one_. Sam's stomach dropped as he jabbed at the button to end the call. "Hilts" was Winchester shorthand for, "Get the hell out – now. Lay low. Meet up later when it's safe." Dean believed that the men who had ambushed him would be after Sam, too. And based on what the stranger had just said, his brother was right.

Sam slid along the wall to the window, keeping himself hidden as he pushed aside the edge of the curtain to survey the motel parking lot. A large dark sedan was pulling in from the road, its occupants hidden behind tinted windows. The car slowly drove toward the brothers' room, rolling to a stop just behind the Impala before backing into a parking space on the far side of the lot. The passenger-side doors both opened and two men, each wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, stepped out.

Sam stared at the sedan and the approaching men as warning bells went off in his head. "_Get him in the car before someone sees us._" Why the hell would the FBI care about being seen?

Sam's stomach flipped again. Because they weren't real feds. He dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his limited options; with bad guys outside, escape via the front door and the Impala were off the table. His gaze jumped to the bathroom, and the small window he knew opened into the alley behind the motel.

Sam jammed his feet into his sneakers, shoved his phone and his wallet into the pockets of his jeans and darted into the bathroom. Forcing open the window, he checked quickly to make sure it was clear, then hauled himself through, dropping easily to the alley below. Glancing around warily, he slid the window closed and took off at a run.

Moments later, when the men in suits burst through the door, they were greeted by an empty room.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean peeled open his eyes, only to snap them shut again as intense, bright light sent pain spiking through his head. He twisted his face away from the light, his cheek scraping against cold concrete. He scowled when he realized he was lying on the floor.

His heart was beating too fast, pounding painfully against his chest. His mind was working too slow, responding sluggishly as he tried to figure out where he was. He lifted his head, groaning audibly at the vertigo the movement caused and quickly dropped his forehead back to the floor.

Dean licked his lips. His tongue felt thick and fuzzy, his mouth like it had been packed with sawdust. His scowl returned when he tried to push himself up and his arms didn't respond, then deepened further when it clicked that they were pulled behind his back, tied at the wrists. "What the f..."

His eyes slid open, the harsh light further fuelling his headache and making him feel sick. He swallowed against the bitter taste of bile, breathing out slowly, as he squinted against the light and tried to take in his surroundings, but it was hard to make out anything beyond the light and the concrete floor he lay on. Maybe Sam knew what the hell was going on.

Sam.

Dean's head snapped up, watering eyes frantically searching through the blinding light for any sign of his brother. He rolled over, the movement causing his headache to spike and his stomach to lurch but his focus was solely finding Sam. The memory of the ambush on the street returned suddenly, of being tackled from behind, fighting with the men in suits and a needle being jabbed into his neck. But Sam wasn't with him. His brother had stayed behind while he went out to get breakfast.

Dean rolled forward, pressing his forehead into the cold concrete. He'd been on the phone with his brother when the men in suits showed up. He'd told Sam to rabbit. _Sammy, if you didn't listen,_ _I am so gonna kick your ass when I see you_. He swallowed. Whatever deep shit he was in, he could handle it a lot better if he knew Sam wasn't in it with him.

But the better option was to get himself out of this mess. Dean pulled angrily at his restraints, wincing as hard plastic bit into skin. Cable ties. Fuck. There was a reason these cheap little bits of plastic were favored by both sides of the law – they were a bitch to get out of.

Dean's feet moved instinctively as he thought about the ankle holster holding his silver knife. He swore softly, first at the memory of his attackers patting him down and taking away the knife, then at the realization his ankles were tied too, bound by another cable tie. And his feet were freezing. Crap. They'd taken his boots, his socks, even his plaid shirt, leaving him with only his jeans and t-shirt.

Who the hell had grabbed him? Dean squeezed his eyes closed, trying to think through the drug-induced fog that filled his head. One of them had flashed a badge – FBI. He snorted. That meant squat; he and Sam had a dozen just like it stashed in the cigar box in the trunk. And given the way he'd been drugged and trussed up, not to mention the light right out of some '50s gangster flick, these guys definitely weren't feds.

Dean groaned as he tried to sit up, the groan turning into a grunt as a booted foot suddenly collided with his chest, shoving him back down on the floor.

Shit. How out of it was he that he hadn't even realized there was someone in the room with him? Grimacing, he tried again to sit up but the foot remained on his chest, the pressure behind it intensifying to force him down, pinning Dean's arms painfully between his back and the floor.

"Get off me," he spat out, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. He peered upward, fighting to see the face of the bastard who had him pinned, but his captor was in silhouette in front of the searing light. Given his bulk, however, Dean guessed he was one of the goons he'd tangled with on the street.

His captor's foot remained pressed against his chest.

"I said, get off," Dean grunted. "Or do I need to use smaller words?"

The pressure on his chest lessened momentarily before, in a blur of movement, the foot swung back and kicked him viciously in the side.

Dean bit back an involuntary cry. "Son of a bitch." He screwed his eyes closed as pain exploded across his ribs, knees curling into his chest reflexively. He spat out bile then glared up at his captor. Still the man didn't speak. "What the f…"

The booted foot was back, this time pressed against Dean's throat, cutting off his protest and his ability to breathe. Dean coughed, choking against the pressure. Consciousness dimmed but he was vaguely aware of his captor flipping open a phone and the electronic beeping of a pre-programmed number cycling through.

The man said only two words, "He's awake," before clicking the phone shut.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam pulled the car up to the curb and slid the gearshift into park, allowing the hot-wired Ford to idle for a moment before pulling the wires. He hunched down in the seat as he stared across the street at their motel.

The dark sedan he had seen earlier was still parked opposite the Impala. Its occupants were either inside the car, hidden by the tinted windows, or lying in wait inside the room.

Sam pulled out his phone, gave it a quick glance as he thumbed through the list of numbers, his attention jumping back to the motel as he hit send and lifted the phone to his ear. "We're in trouble." He blurted out the statement the second the phone stopped ringing. "Dean's gone. They took him."

Bobby was instantly on alert. "_Who took him_?"

Sam slid down further in the seat while still maintaining eye contact with the motel. "Not sure. I was talking to him on the phone. Sounded like the feds cornered him. Then they came after me."

"_Henricksen_?"

"No. They were fakes." Sam drove his knuckles into his temple, trying to push back his building headache. "I called the FBI field office from a payphone as soon as I got clear. Henricksen and Reidy are on a case in Maryland, and the bureau has no operations in this part of L.A. today." He slammed his fist into the side of the car door. "I should have gone after him. Then I-"

"…_would be in the same mess Dean's in. What good would that do_?" There was no accusation in Bobby's tone, just worry. "_Where are you now_?"

"I boosted a car and doubled back. I'm parked opposite the motel. The guys who came after me are still here, waiting in case I come back, I guess. If they leave, I can follow them."

"_Not without a plan you won't_."

Sam glared at the car across the street. "The plan is to get Dean back."

Bobby's voice stayed level. "_I know you're worried, Sam, but you gotta keep your head straight, think of this as a case. If it wasn't your brother missing, what would you be doing_ _right now_?"

Sam's left leg bounced with nervous tension. Bobby was right; he was thinking with his heart, not his head. Again he slammed his fist into the door. "I'd be running the plates to find out who these SOBs really are."

"_Good. Gimme the numbers_."

Sam craned his neck and squinted across the road. "California plates B9G 7X4."

"_Hang on_." Sam could hear Bobby crossing the room, then firing up his computer. He heard the faint clacking of keys, the impatient drumming of fingers, then more keystrokes. Bobby's voice softened. "_How you holdin' up, son'_?"

"How d'you think?" Sam's tone was far sharper than he intended. "Sorry…it's just…I need …"

"_…your pain-in-the-ass brother back_." Bobby sighed. "_Goes without sayin'._ _What about, Gaston – symbol still workin'_?"

Sam ran his fingers absently over his chest where Dean had drawn the protection symbol. "I think. No voices, but my headache's building again. It's like…" Sam pressed his fingers into his temple. "… like he's outside the door, pounding away, just waiting for it to give." He swallowed. "What if I can't…what if he..."

"_Screw what if." _ There was a quiet strength to Bobby's tone that Sam latched onto like a life preserver. "_Just keep fightin' ' til we figure this out_."

Sam screwed his eyes closed as pain knifed through his head. "Gah..." He dropped the phone, slamming the heel of his hand to his temple.

"_Sam_?" Bobby's worried voice cut through the pain. _"Damn it, boy – answer me_."

Before he could, another familiar voice resounded through Sam's head.

"_Help me_."

Sam pressed his forehead against the car window. "Who…are you?"

"_Stop him_."

"Tell me…gah." Pain spiked again and then, off in the distance, he heard the low rumble of menacing laughter. It was Gaston.

At the sound of his voice, Sam's eyes snapped open and he yanked down the neck of his sweat-stained t-shirt. Between his sprint from the motel and the building heat inside the car, he was sweating heavily. The bloodmarks on his chest were smudged and broken.

_"What the hell's goin' on, Sam?_" Bobby's voice came from the dropped phone on the seat beside him.

Sam fumbled in his jeans pocket for the penknife he'd used to strip the wires and boost the car. "Blood marks are wearing off. Gaston's trying to break through."

"_Replace 'em, now._"

"Already on it." Sam flipped open the knife and dragged the blade across the tip of his finger, creating a shallow cut. Again pulling down the neck of his t-shirt, he used the blood to recreate the marks he'd carefully redrawn after his shower, then held his t-shirt away from his skin as the blood dried. As it did, the pain faded and Gaston's laughter fell away. He exhaled slowly. "M'okay…he's gone."

"_Symbol still intact_?"

"Yeah." Sam dropped the knife and picked up the phone. "Please tell me you've found a way to shut out this bastard for good."

Sam heard Bobby's chair creak as he sat back. "_I got about five different ways… but every one requires destroying the physical link_.

Sam stared down at his knee. "And that means cutting out the graft."

Bobby's voice softened. "_Hey…I'm just getting started_. I-"

"If that's what it takes, Bobby, I'm okay with it." Sam swallowed. "But what about the others, huh? The person who got the corneal transplants, or those with skin grafts..."

"_Like I said, Sam: I'm not done by a long shot_. _If I can't find a ritual to protect you and Gaston's other victims, maybe there's one to neutralize the puppetmaster himself. 'Til then,_ _that symbol will hold_." There was a beeping behind Bobby's voice. "_Okay, according to the DMV, B9G 7X4 belongs to…I'll be damned_."

"What?"

"_That car is registered to DGS Shipping_."

Sam's voice tightened. "Durrell?"

"_I'd say so_. _Somehow he's tied you two to his former partner's killing spree. I'd put money down that he knows he's high on the hit list and he wants answers_."

Sam glanced over at the motel. "Dean's not gonna give him any – not ones he likes, anyway."

"_Yeah._" Bobby sighed. "_But if Dean spins'em a line, it should at least buy us some time to find him_."

"Come on, Bobby. You know what Dean's like when he's cornered." Sam's stomach churned when he thought about what Durrell's men might do when his brother's smart mouth kicked into high gear.

"_I know. But, right now, he's more useful to them alive."_

Sam tapped his fist against his leg. "As long as they think he'll give up information."

_"Or draw you in. You said they came after you, too, so they know he's not working alone. If they can't get what they want from him, they'll want you. And the best way to do that is to dangle Dean as bait."_

Sam eyes flashed. "So we cut to the chase. I contact them. We-"

_"Hold on," _Bobby cut in_. "No way-"_

"They've got Dean. I'm not gonna sit here and do nothing."

_"I know. But the only way we get him back and both of you walk away in one piece is with a plan." _

Sam glared at the sedan across the street. "So let's come up with one."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean's already blurry vision grayed further as his captor's booted foot pressed heavily on his neck even after he hung up the phone. Dean was struggling to breathe, losing his tenuous hold on consciousness, when a door opened in a dark corner of the room, the light from the hallway beyond framing a second man in silhouette.

The boot came off his neck suddenly and Dean coughed and wheezed as he sucked in air greedily. He squinted to get a better look as the second man moved closer but the only detail he picked up from his vantage point on the floor was the man's shiny, expensive shoes.

"Any news on the other one?" Shiny Shoes' voice carried an arrogance that clearly said he was the boss.

"Motel's under surveillance," Boots replied, "but the kid hasn't shown up. I think this one warned him."

Dean snorted. _Good boy, Sammy. Got the hell out of Dodge before these jackasses showed up_.

The snort earned him a kick to the lower back. He grunted, biting his lip as the pain radiated down his legs, up his spine and through the fingers of his bound hands which had absorbed part of the blow. But it hurt a hell of a lot less knowing his captors didn't have Sam.

"Where's your partner?"

Dean peeled open his eyes, peering up at the silhouetted figure in front of him. "What partner?"

Shiny Shoes bent down, his cruel mouth and lightly stubbled chin suddenly visible inside the light. "Tall, geeky kid…long dark hair – sound familiar?"

Dean cleared his throat and shook his head. "Nah, not my type. Me? I'm into blue-eyed blondes, about chin height, nice rack. Redheads are awesome, too. So are – gah."

He paid for the wisecrack with another kick to his back. His jaw clenched as glared at his hidden captor.

"Let me rephrase the question: Where's your brother?"

Dean fought to keep his voice even. "Don't have a brother."

This time Shiny Shoes kicked him, the pointed toe of highly polished Italian leather driving hard into his gut. Dean grunted, then wretched, wishing more than anything he'd had a chance to eat the breakfast he'd bought so he had something to puke all over those expensive shoes. He spat out bile, as close to the shoes as he could, before glaring again at his captor.

Shoes chuckled softly, reaching into a manila envelope he carried and pulling out a large piece of paper. As the paper was shoved in his face, Dean forced his eyes to focus, realizing it was a photograph – a photo of him and Sam walking down the L.A. street outside T.J. Renton's office. A red grease pencil circle was drawn around the brothers. "This spark your memory?"

Dean's heart rate sped up but, outwardly, he simply glared upwards, breathing heavily as he shrugged. "Nope. Busy street. I got no control who walks beside me."

The man pulled out a second photo, again shoving it in Dean's face. This one was of the brothers in Scottsdale, walking toward the judge's house. "So it's just a coincidence you were walking beside the same man, in a different city, a day earlier?"

Dean smile hid a growing worry. "They say everyone has a twin somewhere."

Shoes calmly tucked the photos back in the envelope. "You've got a smartass answer for everything, don't you – Dean?"

Dean's heart ratcheted up another notch at the use of his name, but the only noticeable change in his façade was his smile morphing into a smirk. "Pretty much."

Shoes shook his head. "And Elias with such a short fuse. Must make for an interesting working relationship…although him being where he is gives you a certain degree of protection."

Dean's eyes darted from one silhouette to the other at his captor's words. They thought he worked for Gaston.

Realization hit suddenly: Durrell – these men worked for Gaston's former partner. That had to be it. Through the photos they'd linked the brothers to Gaston's killing spree. But there were a lot of players involved; chances were they'd grabbed him to find out just how all the puzzle pieces fit together – and how many more hitmen they had to worry about.

Dean closed his eyes, fighting the drugs in his system to think clearly. Durrell's men wanted Sam, they'd made that clear, but was he just a loose end, or something more? Did they know how his brother was really connected to Gaston?

Shoes seemed to read his thoughts. "Where's your brother, Dean? We'd really hoped both of you could join us."

Dean's stomach flipped again. "Told you, don't have a brother."

Shoes stood up, tucking the tip of his shoe under Dean's cheek to tilt up his head and make him look up at him. The menace in his soft voice was unmistakable. "I wanted to do this amicably but you seem determined to piss me off." He pulled his foot back. "We'll get Sam, one way or another – and it'll be a lot better for your little brother, and you, if I'm not in a bad mood when we do."

Dean glared up at Shoes. "Go screw yourself."

The words had barely left his mouth when Shoes' foot reared back and swung forward, the pointed toe of his expensive shoe connecting viciously with Dean's cheek. Dean's head snapped upwards, sending a spurt of blood into the air. He was unconscious before his face fell forward, slamming into the floor.

xxxXXXxxx

"…_so, depending on traffic, the dockyard's about 15-20 minutes away_. _Smart money says that's where they took him_." Bobby paused when there was no response. "_Sam_?"

"I'm listening." Sam rubbed his temple distractedly. "It's just…just now, when Gaston tried to break through, the second voice was back too."

"_Asking for help again_."

"Yeah." Sam frowned. "He's been saying the same two things over and over in a loop – 'stop him' and 'help me.' But…what if I picked up the loop halfway through? What if he's saying 'Help me stop him.' I mean…" Sam shuffled in his seat to ease a leg cramp. "I've sensed from the beginning that he wasn't a threat but now…I'm thinking he doesn't want my help, he wants to help us."

Bobby sighed. "_Doc said there were 20 other transplant recipients connected to this. It's gonna take time to figure out which one he is, especially when we've got just four words to work with_."

"I know. He's part of this puzzle…" Sam cleared his throat, leaned over and began riffling through the glove compartment. "…but Dean's the priority. We get him back, then we worry about Gaston."

He sat back when he found a pen and a piece of scrap paper. "Okay, gimme the directions to the dockyard.

xxxXXXxxx

"Get him up."

Dean groaned as he was grabbed under the arms, hauled up and dropped roughly onto a small wooden chair. Unprepared for the sudden change in elevation, he toppled forward. A hand grabbed the back of his collar, stopping his fall. He grunted involuntarily as his bound arms were jerked roughly upwards and looped over the chair back.

Dean's chest rose and fell rapidly as he hung forward on the chair. His right eye refused to open, swollen shut by the kick to the face, and the vision in his left slid in and out of focus. He swallowed, fighting the nausea churning in his gut, and shot a weak glare at Shoes. "Son of a bitch," he spat out, the right side of his mouth swollen, too, making speaking difficult. "Untie me…let's see how… tough you are."

Shoes laughed softly, pulling up another chair and placing it in front of Dean. He turned the chair backwards, straddled the seat and lowered himself down, resting his forearms on the seatback. His voice was soft but his friendly tone lacked any sincerity. "I have no doubt that, in a fair contest, you'd give either of us a run for our money." He laughed again. "But you're a smart guy. Even in your current state, I think you've figured out we have no interest in playing fair."

Dean stayed silent, still weighing up the situation. He blinked to try to bring his limited vision into focus, concentrating on the man in front of him. Shoes was about Dean's height and of similar build but his voice sounded older. He was wearing dress slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, dark hair on his forearms. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie loosened. What he looked like beyond that though, Dean couldn't tell; his head and shoulders were lost in shadow created by the light still shining directly in his face.

Shoes voice was calm, still falsely pleasant. "So, Dean…you don't mind if I call you Dean? I could be more formal but do I use Winchester, Hagar, Young, Plant? You see my problem."

Dean's heart skipped a beat at that but, again, he said nothing.

Shoes chuckled. "Don't tell me we kicked the smartass right out of you?" He shifted in his chair when there was still no response from his captive, his voice taking on a slightly mocking tone. "Perhaps I'm being unfair. Are you not feeling well?"

Dean was teetering in his chair, would have fallen if the ropes weren't holding him in place, but anger helped him focus. "Bite me."

Shoes laughed softly again. "That's more like the Dean we were expecting." He leaned forward, the lower half of his face moving out of shadow, revealing even, white teeth behind the cruel smile. "Look, I apologize for that kick to the face earlier. You're not the only one with a temper and, I'll admit, sometimes mine gets the better of me. Not one of my best traits."

The legs of the chair scraped on the concrete as Shoes pushed himself to his feet. "I should have remembered that Mickey and his boys shot you full of a pretty powerful sedative when they picked you up. I'm sure your brain is still feeling a bit scrambled, so why don't we blame that for your lack of co-operation, huh?" Shoes was behind Dean now, off to his right, in the shadows. "Let's start fresh."

Dean grunted as a meaty fist punched him in the back of the head, the blow snapping his head forward so his chin collided with his chest. His already blurry vision grayed out before slowly sliding back into focus.

Dean's breathing was rapid and shallow, his chest heaving as he glared straight ahead, but he said nothing. He licked his lips and swallowed, suddenly needing all his concentration simply to hold up his own head.

Shoes came into view again seconds later, this time holding a syringe and a small vial of liquid. He sat down on the chair in front of Dean and proceeded to punch the needle into the vial and slowly draw back the plunger.

"You and Sam, you're pretty good at covering your tracks but, with all due respect to Mickey and his boys, finding you certainly wasn't thanks to any stellar detective work on their part." He chuckled. "That black beauty you drive is a little conspicuous. We tracked that, were on our way to pick you up and there you were, just walking down the street." Shoes pulled the needle from the vial and depressed the plunger on the syringe, forcing out the air and a tiny bead of liquid.

Dean heart was racing. He struggled harder to free his hands, grimacing at the bite of hard plastic into the soft flesh of his wrists. He blinked as Shoes' silhouette blurred, his eyes burning under the glare of the spotlight. It took all his remaining energy just to keep them open.

"You fading on me?"

Dean again heard the squeak of wooden chair legs on the concrete floor and was aware of Shoes moving quickly towards him. With no further warning, his head was pushed roughly sideways and the needle jabbed into his neck.

"Fuck." His breathing quickened with the sharp stab of pain. He screwed his eyes closed but the burning where the needle had been inserted subsided quickly. It was replaced by a strange tickling sensation in his abdomen, like something was growing rapidly in his stomach, its tentacles slowly crawling up his throat, through his arms and down his legs, fighting to break free. His eyes snapped open and he ground his teeth as he glared up at Shoes, wanting nothing more than to free his hands so he could reach over and rip his tormentor's head from his neck.

Shoes just smiled at the fury emanating from his captive. "That should wake you up. We can't sort out our little Gaston problem if you fall asleep on me." He tousled Dean's hair in a false gesture of comfort that turned the elder Winchester's stomach.

Shoes handed off the used syringe to the unseen Mickey and again sat down on the chair in front of Dean.

Dean could feel tears from his watering eyes leak down his face as he glared at Shoes but he refused to turn away. "Bast-" He bit off his curse as the drug's prickling sensation exploded suddenly into an euphoric warmth, dulling pain and neutralizing his anger. His vision cleared, his heart-rate picked up, beating faster and faster until it was thumping a staccato rhythm against his ribs. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing keeping time with his heartbeat. The fog that had filled his head since he'd come to on the concrete floor, and thickened with the kick to his face, cleared suddenly.

His senses were suddenly acute. Dean could feel his pupils dilate, could hear water dripping somewhere in the room, each drip echoing off the concrete walls as it hit the ground. He wrinkled his nose at the stale scent of cigarette smoke – menthols – that clung to Boots. No. Not Boots – Mickey. That's what Shoes had called him.

He canted his head toward Shoes, breathing in deeply. Shoes didn't smoke, but he wore aftershave. Expensive stuff, too. Dean tried to gesture at his captor but the pull of the plastic ties reminded him that his hands were still bound behind his back. He knew he should be pissed but all he could muster was mild annoyance.

He stared down at his captor's expensive shoes for a moment, then lifted his head, offering Shoes his most charming smile. "Look, I think there's been a big misunderstanding here. What say you untie me and we start over?"

Shoes chuckled. "You've been less than co-operative since you arrived, Dean. Why should I believe you?"

"'Cause I'm feeling much better now." Dean shrugged, his smile widening. "And I'm smart enough to know things are gonna go a lot better for me if you and I can be friends."

Shoes again rested his forearms on the back of the chair, absently tapping his fists together. "There's nothing I'd like more. But friends have to trust each other."

Dean nodded amicably. "Yup. Gotta know they've got your back in a sticky situation." He leaned toward Shoes as far as his bonds allowed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And what we've got here is about as sticky as a fucking glue factory."

"True." Shoes leaned forward, the lower half of his face dropping into the light. "So, wouldn't you feel better if Sam was here, where you could watch out for him, keep him safe?"

Dean started to nod, then stopped, smiling as he shook his head. "You tricky son of a bitch."

Shoes' thin lips twisted into a bemused smile. "Come on, Dean. Like you, we're worried about Sam. If he's out there, following Gaston's orders without his wingman, who knows what might happen to him. It's pretty clear your employer doesn't care about collateral damage as long as the target's taken out. Is that what's Sam's doing? Going after his next target?"

Dean groaned as his stomach dropped suddenly, like an elevator with its cable cut, as his abdominal muscles cramped viciously. The pleasant warmth that had enveloped vanished, leaving him shivering. He swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea, then glared at Shoes, anger building rapidly over the drug-induced head games his captor was playing. "What the fuck did you give me?"

"Just a little pick-me-up." Shoes sat back and folded his arms. "Your metabolism's impressive. I was hoping we might get a little more information before you crashed but, oh well."

Dean leaned forward again, breathing heavily as the pounding in his head built to a crescendo. He swallowed, then directed his attempt at a glare toward Shoes. "Before we're done here, I'm gonna rip those shoes off your feet and feed them to you."

Shoes laughed as he pushed himself to his feet. "That's more like it. I was beginning to think the man paled next to the reputation." He held out his hand and Mickey placed a file folder in it. Shoes opened the file and began flipping through the papers. "I'm gonna save us both some time and effort here, tell you what we already know so you don't waste your energy manufacturing that bullshit you're renowned for."

He read from a page in the file. "Your name is Dean Winchester, although, as we established earlier, you have a host of aliases – as does your younger brother Sam, despite his brief stab at respectability as a Stanford law student."

Any residual effects of Dean's high dissipated with that statement.

Shoes turned a few more pages in the file, whistling softly. "I have to say, you two are definitely creative. I think faking your death after the St. Louis murder is my favorite, although Mickey here is kind of partial to you and your brother breaking out of Green River Detention Center." He chuckled. "He'd love to know how you did that; file it away in case he needs to bust out some time."

Dean's heart rate edged up another notch.

Shoes flipped another page, shaking his head. "It's too bad you chose to work for Gaston, Dean. We could have made good use of your skills. I mean – murder, robbery, insurance fraud, grave desecration…love that last one." He closed the file suddenly. "Tell me – does Gaston pay extra to dig up bones and God knows what else for that black magic bullshit he's into these days? I mean, come on – there's gotta be better ways to make a living than digging up stiffs."

Dean snorted, not missing the irony that he'd often thought the same thing. "A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do," he muttered, as he processed the information Shoes had laid out. Dean had played this game plenty of times, and from both sides of the table. His captor knew way more about the brothers than he should, but he was still fishing.

On the flip side, Dean now knew that the man didn't believe in black magic. His words and the inflection of his voice when he'd asked about their grave-digging had both been genuinely condescending. And if he was a non-believer, odds were that he didn't know how Gaston was really connected to Sam.

Shoes stepped forward, his Italian leather loafers once again visible in the light. "We know Elias is behind the hits on the judge, the prosecutor and the jury foreman. We know that all the hits were undertaken by amateurs – all Joe Averages facing huge medical bills after lengthy hospital stays. If I had to guess, I'd say Elias promised to pay off those bills, all the little things the damned insurance companies won't cover, if they did him _one small favor_. Am I right?"

Dean glared in the direction of Shoes' voice, but said nothing. As he hoped, Shoes took his silence as confirmation.

"Of course, he never had to pay because each of his hitmen conveniently got themselves killed taking out their assigned targets." He chuckled. "Elias always was a cheap bastard. Part of me wonders whether he ever planned to pay up, or whether he would have taken them out himself if they somehow survived."

Dean pulled against his bonds, using the bite of plastic on skin to help him focus. In Sam's vision, one of Durrell's men had taken out the jury foreman's killer. They had likely tried to grab that killer to get the same answers Shoes was seeking now, but had lost the chance when Gaston forced his puppet to attack, getting him shot in the process. It also explained why they'd come prepared with a sedative when they'd grabbed him off the street. They weren't about to make the same mistake twice.

Shoes again sat down on the chair in front of Dean. "And that brings us to you and your brother. See, we're a little puzzled over how Elias managed to recruit you and these men. We, how shall I put this, _monitor_ all his usual channels of communication in and out of that prison and there was no mention of this latest little campaign. I'm embarrassed to say it took us by surprise." He leaned forward, angry, dark eyes briefly visible before disappearing back into shadow. "Made us look bad in front of our boss, Dean. You can see why that would make me unhappy."

Dean gritted his teeth. Durrell obviously had paid informants among the inmates and staff at Pelican Bay. No doubt, he was the bankroll behind the inmate who had stabbed Gaston and put him in the hospital in need of a liver transplant – an attack that had subsequently set his latest plan in motion. But if they believed black magic was just a bunch of bull, from their perspective the attacks would have come out of left field.

Shoes was still pacing. "Then we got the photos of you and Sam in Arizona and in L.A. We do a little digging, discover your colorful past and, what do you know: Sam was recently hospitalized, too…reconstructive knee surgery at –" Shoes again flipped open the file he held, "Stanford Medical Center." He whistled softly. "Nothing but the best for your little bro, huh? But tell me something." He snapped shut the file. "How do two itinerant petty criminals with insurance fraud already on their record, swing surgery and a month's worth of rehab at one of the country's top hospitals?"

Dean shook his head, frantically trying to clear the fog rapidly shrouding his thinking. They'd hidden their connection to Doc; he was sure they had. God knows he didn't want her dragged into this mess.

Again misreading Dean's silence as insolence, Shoes now sounded pissed. "So, did Elias offer you the same deal, huh? To pay off Sam's medical bills if you orchestrated this little vengeance campaign? Acted as his go-between? Do the clean-up afterwards to make sure nothing ties back to him?" Dean again heard a rustle of papers as Shoes paced behind him. "All Sam's bills were paid through some mystery foundation. Looks to me like a front for Gaston's money, 'cause, let me tell you, Fort Knox could learn a thing or two from the security protocols protecting it."

Dean groaned as his stomach cramped viciously. The foundation was one Doc had helped Pastor Jim set up years earlier to help hunters in financial need get the medical care they needed with as few questions as possible. It was funded by money obtained through often questionable means in the course of a hunt, and the occasional grateful, wealthy client. Given most of the injuries hunters suffered were of a violent nature sustained in mysterious circumstances, the foundation remained low-key and carefully protected the identities of both benefactors and grant recipients. If Shoes' people had been poking around and were repeatedly stonewalled, he could see how it might seem like a cover for Gaston.

Outwardly, he just shrugged as he turned his head toward the sound of Shoes' voice, frowning as his vision slid out of focus.

"Whatever." Shoes moved again in front of Dean, pacing back and forth through the pool of light on the floor. "But it does bring us to the point of this meeting. What I need to know, what you're going to tell me, is what else Elias is planning – and how."

Dean shuddered, a chill gripping him like a spirit had suddenly entered the room and was standing right next to him. He looked around, blinking against the light and breathing out to see if his breath frosted. He frowned when it didn't, the frown deepening when he realized his legs were shaking noticeably, bouncing enough to make the chair legs scrape against the concrete floor.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes to find himself staring again at Shoes' expensive loafers. He was hanging forward in the chair, only his bound wrists stopping him from ending up on the floor. With a groan, he lifted his head, glaring into the darkness. He was shivering violently, his shallow breathing audible.

"Oh dear. Now comes the rough part."

Dean bit his bottom lip to stop it trembling but that just emphasized the harshness of his breathing as he inhaled and exhaled rapidly through his nose.

Shoes patted Dean on the shoulder in mock sympathy as he walked by him. "I'm sorry to say, the trip down can be…rocky. Things are gonna get a whole lot worse before they get better."

Dean yanked his shoulder away from Shoes' hand, almost tipping his chair in the process. He was shaking noticeably now, his chair rattling against the concrete floor. He blinked rapidly, his bound hands clenching and unclenching.

Shoes placed his foot on the seat of the chair in front of Dean, and rested his elbow on his bent knee. His face stayed hidden in shadow. "Now, you cooperate, and I might be able to give you something to make you a little more comfortable.

"I'll keep it nice and simple. We need three pieces of information: one, how are you communicating with Elias? Two, who's been given the hit on Mr. Durrell? And three, when's it supposed to go down?"

Dean said nothing, his harsh breathing and the rattling of his chair the only sounds in the room.

Shoes sighed. "One more chance, Dean."

Vertigo caused Dean to almost pass out as he lifted his head to look up at Shoes. He shook his head, a vain attempt to clear it, then smirked weakly. "Don't suppose you'd buy Gaston's using black magic to astral project himself out of prison and psychically take control of innocent schmucks, forcing them to kill for him?"

Dean's head snapped to right as Shoes punched him in the face, the man's gold signet ring carving a gouge in his left cheek. Dazed by the blow, Dean wavered on the edge of consciousness. His head rolled forward, his chin dropping to his chest. So much for telling the truth. He grimaced at the taste of blood, spitting to get rid of it. "Guess not."

Without warning, Mickey grabbed his hair and yanked his head backwards. Dean found himself staring into Shoes angry face, for the first time getting a clear view of the hard, dark eyes and hawk-like nose that topped the cruel mouth. Shoes was in his fifties, his dark, wiry hair close-cropped and receding at the temples. If Dean had ever doubted this man was a killer, one look into his eyes erased it.

"I wanted to do this civilly, Dean," Shoes said quietly, "but no. You had to push me. You're really not gonna like what I do next." He motioned with his hand to Mickey, who passed him a cellphone. He played with buttons for a moment before the phone disappeared into the shadows as he lifted it to his ear.

He chuckled when someone answered. "Hey, Sam."

xxxXXXxxx

The sound of computer keys clacking came over the phone. Bobby exhaled as he studied the plans he'd called up. "_There's a main warehouse/office building and two subsidiary warehouses that all belong to DGS. It's a lot of ground to cover, but-_."

"Don't care. It's better than just sitting here." Sam tapped his fist impatiently against the steering wheel. "Where's the best place to-" He frowned as the call waiting beep sounded, then paled when he saw the name displayed. "I've got a call coming through. It's Dean."

"_Careful, Sam_. M_ay be his phone but no tellin' who's usin' it_."

"I know." Sam ended one call and answered the other. "Yeah?"

_"Hey Sam_."

Sam's stomach lurched, his heart beating faster. "Who is this?"

A low chuckle came over the phone. "_Who I am is irrelevant. What's important is I'm with your brother._"

Sam felt like a hand had reached inside his chest and was slowly squeezing his heart, but he fought to keep his voice level. "And I'm just supposed to take your word for that?"

"Not at all."

There was a pause, the sound of someone being hit and then a very familiar, very pissed-off voice. "_You son of bitch_…"

The man laughed again. "_I_ _don't think Dean cares much for our company_."

Bile burned in Sam's throat. "You leave him the hell alone."

The stranger sounded amused. "_Look, all I wanted was a nice little chat but your brother's been…difficult_."

Sam frowned. The more the man spoke, the more he was sure he'd heard his voice before. "What the hell do you want?"

The stranger sighed. "_Information…that's it. We know you're working for Gaston, we know what his grand plan is, but we're missing a few details. So, I propose a straight-up trade – those details for your brother_."

"_Sam, don't you fucking dare. You pull a Scully on me, I'll_-" Dean's shouted warning was cut off by the sound of another punch.

Now Sam's voice was low and dangerous. "You want any cooperation from me, Dean's off-limits. Let me talk to him."

The man laughed. "_You're really in no position to give orders, Sam_." His voice hardened quickly. "_Thirty minutes. DGS dockyards, main gate. You don't show, we pull our offer – and cut our losses. Clock's ticking_."

With that, he hung up.

Sam stared at the phone, breathing heavily, then redialed Bobby's number. "They wanna trade info for Dean. They think we're working for Gaston."

Bobby's voice was tense. "_That was Durrell_?"

"No." Sam dragged his hand over his eyes. "One of his goons."

"_They let you talk to your brother_?"

"Not directly, but I heard him. His voice sounded…it wasn't good." Sam jammed the phone between his left ear and shoulder and reached forward to hotwire the engine. "I've got thirty minutes to get over there."

"_Now, hold on. You_-"

"I don't have a choice." As the engine sparked to life, Sam yanked the car into gear and pulled into traffic, brakes squealing. "Durrell's goon made it pretty damn clear what would happen if I don't show."

"_And how is that different from if you do show_?" Sam could hear Bobby pacing. "_Look, I know some hunters in __L.A.__ Good men. Let me call_-"

"Call who you want but I'm not waiting. You said yourself, the dockyard's 15 minutes away and that's if traffic's good."

Bobby's voice was clipped. "_Okay_, t_hink about what this guy said. Is there anything we can use?_"

Sam mentally replayed the conversation. "He said he'd trade details on Gaston's vendetta for Dean. Then Dean shouted don't pull a Scully..."

"_Code word?_"

"Yeah. Means we're dealing with non-believers, skeptics. They know Gaston's behind this killing spree, know Durrell's in his sights but they're thinking Sopranos, not Exorcist."

"_Anything else_?"

Sam frowned. "The man's voice. I recognized it."

"_From where_?"

"Not sure." Sam jammed on the brakes as a light turned red. "It'll come to me but, right now, I need to focus on Dean. How I'm gonna get him outta there."

_"Well if they're skeptics like Dean says, they ain't gonna buy what you're sellin' when it comes to Gaston."_

Sam glanced down at his chest where his t-shirt covered the protection symbol. "They'd believe me if they saw him with their own eyes."

"_What?_"

The light turned green and Sam slammed down the accelerator. "What if we could force Gaston to appear in the same room as Durrell?"

"_You mean willingly _l_et him take over?_"

"No." Sam yanked the car around a corner. "We modify this protection symbol somehow so it lets him make the connection without taking over – forces him to use astral projection, appear in his own form. If he shows up, if Durrell sees him, that might be enough of a distraction for me to grab Dean and get him out of there."

Bobby's voice was incredulous. "_You got any idea how many kinds of crazy that is_?"

"I know." Sam gripped the wheel tighter to stop his hand from shaking. "But I'm grasping at straws here, Bobby. I do nothing, they kill Dean then come after me. I walk in there tell'em what I know, they kill both of us. And none of that stops Gaston. Unless you got a better idea…" he glanced at his watch, "we've got twenty-six minutes to make this work."

Bobby's chair creaked as he pushed it away from his desk. "_You two make it through this, I'm a dead man, 'cause you're brother's gonna kill me for letting you walk in there alone_."

Sam frowned as realization struck. "I won't be alone."

"_What?_"

Sam swallowed. "The second voice. I know who it is. He can help. He can end this."

xxxXXXxxx

The effects of the drugs paled next to the gut-twisting nausea that racked Dean when he realized Shoes was talking to Sam.

He knew his brother too well; there was no way that Sam would stay away so Dean had done the best thing his battered brain could come up with – shout out the Scully code to let Sam know he couldn't bargain with the truth. The warning had earned him a second punch and a gun to the head for the rest of Shoes' brief conversation.

Mickey lowered the gun as Shoes hung up the phone.

"You bastard."

Shoes tossed the phone to Mickey. "I'm used to getting what I want, Dean. You wouldn't give it to me, so…let's see what Sam comes up with." He stepped closer, standing right in front of his captive. "Tell me, how do you think your brother will react to that chemical pick-me-up, huh? He's a big boy; I might just have to double the dose to be sure."

Dean threw himself at Shoes, would have toppled the chair had Mickey not grabbed him and fastened a beefy arm around his throat to yank him back. Dean choked in the hold, Mickey's arm pressed hard against his windpipe.

Shoes leaned forward, his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer. "Me and Sam...we'll go a few rounds, see what happens. Then, if he proves as stubborn as you, we'll cut our losses and dump his headless body in the bay." He leaned closer to Dean, his cold eyes visible. "After we drop his head in your lap just to let you know we're done."

Dean's stomach heaved.

Shoes stepped back and Mickey released his hold.

Dean coughed and gasped as he sucked in air, his body suddenly racked by violent tremors. He gritted his teeth, fighting to regain control of his body and his emotions. He glared at Shoes. "You hurt Sam...you lose your best chance to stop Gaston." His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but it got Shoes' attention.

He turned back to face Dean. "And why should I believe that's anything more than a desperate plea to save your brother?"

Dean was fighting to keep his vision and his thoughts in focus. "Because Sam's point man on this gig; all dealings with Gaston go through him. You want access to Gaston, you need Sam."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam pulled the car up to the curb near the entrance to the dockyards, slid the transmission into park and pulled the wires, the engine stuttering before dying out. He swapped the phone to his right hand and glanced at his watch. "I'm here – with four minutes to spare."

The sound of a book closing came across the phone. "_Did I mention this was a really bad idea_?"

"A few times." Sam glanced over at the dockyard gate. "So, I've recited the first two parts of the incantation – all I have to do now is remove the bloodmarks, and finish the spell, right?"

"Yeah, but…damn it, Sam. We cobbled this together on the fly. There's so much that could go wrong."

"No, it'll work." Sam nodded, convincing himself as much as Bobby.

"_You sure you got the last part memorized_?"

"Yeah. And the second incantation. They're short – it's not a problem." Sam exhaled slowly. "Okay, give me Durrell's direct line."

"_555-6651_." Bobby's voice was quiet. "Get in and get out kid, as fast as you can."

"That's the plan. Thanks, Bobby." Sam hung up the dialed Durrell's number.

"_Who is this_?" The voice on the other end was tense, suspicious."

Sam swallowed. "Put me through to Michael Durrell. Tell him it's Sam Winchester. I have a message from Elias Gaston."

**_To Be Continued_**…

**_A/N:_**_ Next up: the big showdown. To those who waited patiently for Dean whumpage, I hope you enjoyed – and I'm not done yet. *evil grin* And as for Sam… nope, he's not in the clear either! Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear from you. More Monday. Cheers._


	8. Chapter 8

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both __Winchester__ brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb. Oh, and a fair bit of violence in this chapter, too. *ducks behind couch*_

**DISCLAIMER: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N: **_There's more trouble ahead for our dashing __Winchester__ boys – which is just as well because, otherwise, it wouldn't be much of a story. ;) I really can't say thank you enough to everyone for reading, and to those who sent along comments and guesses – you've made posting this story a real pleasure. To my betas, the Always Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story._

**CHAPTER 8**

"You hurt Sam, you lose your best chance to stop Gaston." Dean's voice was hoarse, barely audible. He hated painting a target on his brother's back but, if Sam was going to show up, the best way to stop Shoes and his goons from doing too much damage was to make them think he had the answers they wanted.

Shoes seemed to read his mind. "And why should I believe that's anything more than a desperate plea to save your brother?"

Dean was fighting to keep his vision and his thoughts in focus. "Because Sam's the point man on this gig; all dealings with Gaston go through him."

"Okay...how's he contacting him?"

"It's…complicated."

"I'm a smart guy."

Dean ground his teeth as the drugs in his system caused his vision to blur and his muscles to spasm. As the pain ebbed, he sucked in a breath, exhaled slowly, still unable to control the tremors racking through him. He fixed Shoes with a hard stare. "Trust me. Einstein would have a hard time wrapping his head around this."

"Whatever. We'll let Sam answer the 'how' when we gets here." Shoes walked behind Dean, then leaned in close, his mouth inches from Dean's ear. "When we question your brother, I haven't decided yet whether to let you watch – or just listen."

"You sick son of a bitch…" Dean twisted around but his tormentor quickly disappeared into the shadows.

Shoes reappeared in front of Dean. "So let's talk about _your_ role in Gaston's grand plan?"

Dean's eyes narrowed as he forced a slow smile. "I told you: untie me and I'll show you what it is."

Shoes laughed as he again straddled the chair in front of his prisoner. "Let me guess." His forearms rested on the chair back, his fingers threaded together. "Recruitment. You pick the killers."

Dean turned his head away. "No way. This is Gaston's show, front to back."

"Clean-up, then."

"That's part of it." Dean kept his gaze averted, playing the game. This kind of bull was easy, just the truth wrapped in a lie. "Just tying up loose ends. Nothing more."

"So who's been given the hit on Mr. Durrell?"

A particularly harsh tremor ripped through Dean, again almost tipping the chair he sat in. As he regained control, he shook his head slowly. "Dunno. Gaston keeps that information on a need-to-know basis. And we don't need to know 'til the vic's a stiff and the cops are playing whodunit."

"So you have no idea when the hit's going down or who's doing it?"

Dean again shook his head. "Not a clue. Our job starts when it's done."

There was a lengthy pause before Shoes spoke again. "And why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"

Dean's head snapped around, his eyes flashing angrily. "Because you threatened to cut off my brother's head. And for what? Gaston? We owe that bastard shit." He crumpled forward, letting out an involuntary groan as his stomach cramped viciously. He kept his eyes closed until the cramp eased, then lifted his head, breathing heavily. "Gaston's a paycheck. End of story. That ain't worth dying for."

"Speaking of paychecks," Shoes sat back in his chair, "how's Gaston funneling the money to you?"

Dean looked away. "Screw you. I'm done talking."

His captor stood up and moved toward him, paused for a moment and then walked around the chair. Dean tensed, knowing he'd likely poked the lion one time too many.

He was right. The blow to the back of his skull was hard. Dean's head snapped forward, his chin smashing into his chest, his vision graying at the edges. Between the drugs and the blows to the head, it was a fight to hang on to consciousness, at least until Shoes grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. His captor leaned in close, for only the second time giving Dean a clear view of his face. "I warned you about pissing me off."

Dean glared at his tormentor, his vision barely in focus. But Shoes wasn't the only one pissed off. Dean used his remaining strength to wrench his head free of Shoes' grasp and slam his forehead into the man's nose.

Shoes' grunt was a mix of surprise and pain as he stumbled backwards but Dean's satisfaction was short-lived. He took another punch, this time to the jaw, the blow from Mickey snapping his head to the side and sending blood and saliva flying.

The punch was followed immediately by a kick that toppled Dean's chair. Hands bound behind him, he landed heavily on his left side, the chair shattering beneath him. The accompanying jolt of pain shot from his arm through his shoulder and further stoked his already churning stomach. He vomited, then screwed his eyes closed waiting for sharp pain to fade to a dull ache.

Dean was sorely tempted just to let unconsciousness pull him under, but his eyes snapped open when he was grabbed by the front of his t-shirt and dragged free of the splintered remains of the chair. Shoes was crouched in front of him, blood spattered across the front of his crisp white shirt and silk tie. The man's left hand stayed fisted in Dean's shirt while he used the handkerchief in his right to dab at his nose and wipe away the blood from his face.

"I'm tired of this, Dean. You are-" His phone ringing cut off his threat. Maintaining his hold on Dean's t-shirt, Shoes threw down the handkerchief, yanked the phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. "What?"

Dean forced his eyes to focus on Shoes but the man's face was inscrutable, his voice fuzzy and distant.

"I'll be right there." Shoes released his hold as he stood up and Dean dropped to the floor. Shoving his phone in his pocked, Shoes paced in front of his prisoner. "You fading on me, Dean? Can't have that." He turned toward Mickey. "I need to take care of this but don't let him pass out. Crank him up again. Have some fun. See what you can get."

Heart racing, wracked again by violent cramps, Dean groaned audibly. He curled in on himself, knees drawn tightly to his stomach.

"Fuck." He swore as a needle was once more jabbed into his neck, launching him again on the brief, dizzying ride to a chemical high before the inevitable, and spectacular, crash. He shook his head, then stared at the shiny Italian leather shoes in front of his face. His vision sharpened suddenly, just in time to see the shoes turn, walk through the pool of light toward the door and out of the room.

xxxXXXxxx

Shoved from behind, Sam stumbled through the office doorway. He shot a glare at his escort as he regained his balance, grimacing as he pulled at the cable tie that bound his hands behind his back.

The man – Danny someone had called him – smiled, obviously reveling in Sam's discomfort.

Danny and the two other men now following behind had met Sam at the gate. After searching him, and taking away his phone, they escorted him to the main warehouse complex. There, they'd been met by a fourth man, his dark eyes, steely gray hair and hawk-like nose strangely familiar. But it was the blood spattered across the front of the man's white shirt that sent a chill through Sam. Was it Dean's blood?

That man had disappeared after muttering instructions to Danny. They'd then stripped Sam of his outer shirt, his shoes and socks, emptied his pockets and bound his hands before leading him to the third floor and Durrell's office.

Danny stashed his gun in the holster under his left arm, then grabbed Sam by the biceps and hauled him into the center of the room to stand in front of a large, ornate desk.

Sam snatched his arm away, but Danny held on, yanking him closer and stepping on Sam's bare foot to hold him in place. His smile widened at Sam's grunt of pain. As Sam tried to pull away, Danny shifted his weight, the heel of his shoe pressing down hard on the bridge of Sam's foot.

Sam met his tormentor's smile with a glare, but didn't flinch.

Danny was about the same age as Sam and of similar height to Dean. His expensive clothes covered a muscular frame and, given the way the two other men had answered to him, he obviously held some position of authority within Durrell's company. His cold eyes glinted as he increased the pressure on Sam's foot, determined to get a reaction.

And he got one – a sharp head-butt that sent him reeling backwards.

The shocked look on Danny's face was worth the stars Sam saw as he too stumbled back. But Danny's surprise morphed quickly into fury and he lunged at his captive, first slamming his fist into Sam's stomach doubling him over, then driving his fist into Sam's jaw, snapping his head to the right and knocking him off his feet. Hands bound behind him, Sam went down heavily, his knee twisting as he fell and his head smacking hard against the wood floor of the office.

"You should have seen that coming, Danny. That fight strategy seems to run in the family."

Sam looked up dazedly, the double blow to the head amplifying the headache that had been building since he'd wiped off the bloodmarks just before walking through the dockyard gates. Wincing at the pull on his knee as he sat up, he twisted to see Michael Durrell walk into the office and stand next to a glowering Danny.

Durrell shook his head as he looked down at Sam. "As for you, Sam: you shouldn't push Danny's buttons. He enjoys his job far too much." He shot a glance at Danny before walking behind his desk. "Get him up."

Glaring at Sam, Danny in turn jerked his head toward the doorway of the office and the two men who stood there. They moved in quickly, each hooking an arm under Sam's and hauling him to his feet.

Sam wavered unsteadily in their hold, shifting his weight to his left leg as he fought to regain his balance.

Durrell now stood with his back to Sam, staring out the large window that overlooked the docks and the harbor beyond. He was almost as tall as Sam and still in good shape, although age had softened him, leaving him slightly stooped. Still, it was easy to tell he'd once been a brawler, a man used to backing up threats with his fists.

Sam swallowed, steadying himself. "Where's my brother?"

Durrell remained facing the window. "He's alive – for now." There was a lengthy moment of silence before he turned slowly toward Sam. Each man studied the other intently.

Durrell's eyes were an intense blue, framed by thick, graying eyebrows, deep creases and heavy shadows, and he had a full head of hair, in the midst of turning from gray to white. "You have a message from Elias?"

Sam held his gaze. "You're at the top of his hit list."

"That's not exactly news. Elias has been carrying a grudge since he went to jail." Durrell sighed. "Where and when is this hit supposed to go down?"

"You get details when I see my brother." Sam's voice was hard.

With only a slight glance from Durrell, the man on Sam's left drove an elbow into his gut while the man on the right slammed his foot into the side of Sam's right knee. His leg buckled instantly and Sam went down, landing on his knees. Fighting to control the building nausea as familiar pain shot from his knee through his leg, he glared up at Durrell as the old man walked around his desk to stand in front of him.

Durrell shook his head. "I thought we'd established who's calling the shots here."

Sam gritted his teeth until the pain dulled. "I'll give you what you want – as soon as I know Dean's okay."

Durrell smiled slowly. "If people who worked for me were this demanding, Sam, a pink slip would be the least of their worries." He shrugged. "But, in a show of good faith..."

He nodded at Sam's guards, who again hauled their prisoner to his feet. Durrell walked behind his desk and twisted around his computer screen so it faced Sam. Following a few key strokes, a window opened showing security camera images from across the dockyard and throughout its buildings. He hit another series of keys and the multiple images became one – showing a man, bound hand and foot, lying on the floor in a pool of light.

Sam's eyes were locked on the computer image. "Dean."

Durrell hit another key and the camera zoomed in. Sam's stomach churned at the sight of his brother. "No." Dean appeared semi-conscious, tremors visibly racking his body. The right side of his face was bruised and caked in dried blood, his right eye swollen shut.

Sam struggled to free himself, to get closer to the computer screen. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Durrell appeared completely disinterested. "Your brother was…uncooperative."

Sam's eyes flashed furiously. "I want to see him in person – now!"

Durrell clicked another key and the screen went blank. "As soon as I get what I want."

"No." Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "Until I see Dean, you get squat."

Durrell stared at him coldly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sam."

Sam straightened up slowly, using his height to full advantage, and never breaking eye contact with Durrell. "If you weren't worried about Gaston, you wouldn't have grabbed Dean and I wouldn't be here, right now. If you wanna know how it's gonna go down, if you want help stopping him, bring Dean here. Now."

Durrell glared at Sam but slowly, deliberately, picked up the phone on the desk and barked a single order into the receiver. "Bring him here."

He carefully replaced the receiver and then moved around the desk to stand in front of Sam. He held Sam's gaze for a long moment, saying nothing, then walked around behind him. Without warning, he drove his foot into the back of Sam's right knee.

"Gah…" Sam legs gave out and he would have hit the floor had his guards not each had an arm hooked through his. He hung in their hold, eyes screwed shut waiting for the fiery pain to dull.

When he opened his eyes, Durrell was again in front of him, leaning against his desk, smiling coldly. "Still a little tender after surgery, huh?"

His smile only widened at Sam's glare. "I don't like ultimatums, Sam. Remember that." He leaned forward. "Next time you feel like issuing one, it'll be Dean who pays the price. We clear?"

Sam nodded brusquely as his guards dragged him to his feet. He winced as he found his balance, again letting his left leg take his weight.

"Good." Durrell folded his arms. "So, Elias is gunning for me – again." He shrugged. "It was only a matter of time. He's tried before – and failed, every single time. Why should this be any different?"

Sam wrenched his arm free of the guard on his right, scowling at Durrell. "He has a few new tricks up his sleeve. Ones you're not ready for."

"Such as..."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You know what he's into these days?"

Durrell exhaled impatiently. "You mean that voodoo bullshit?"

Sam nodded, biting his lip against the crescendo of whispers in his head. "Technically, it's black magic."

Durrell canted his head toward Sam, his frown deepening the creases in his forehead. "Don't tell me you believe that crap?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm open to it."

Durrell's smile returned. "That surprises me. I'd think someone who once considered a career in law would prefer to deal in fact."

Sam's chest tightened over the revelation that Durrell knew about Stanford as well as his surgery, but he fought hard to maintain his neutral façade. "The fact is, what I've seen would do a lot more than surprise you."

Durrell shook his head, moving behind his desk. "What I know is that Elias is a user. He'll use anything and anyone to get what he wants. Fifteen years behind bars hasn't changed that – just his methods. This chicken bones mumbo jumbo is just grade school scare tactics to keep his half-wit cellmates in line. I would have thought you had more brains than to fall for such an obvious con."

"It's not-" Noise outside the doorway drew Sam's attention and he twisted around in time to see two men drag Dean into the office. His brother was facing forward, his head hanging down. His arms were bound behind him and his bare feet lashed at the ankles. One of the men pulling him into the office was the hawk-nosed man with the blood-spattered shirt Sam had seen earlier.

Dean offered no resistance. When his two guards released their hold, he dropped, face down, onto the office floor. He landed hard but made no sound and didn't move.

"Dean?" Sam tried to wrench himself free of his guards, slamming his shoulder into one, shoving aside the other before the click of a gun pressed to his temple stilled him instantly.

Chest heaving, he turned slowly toward the gun. Danny was smirking coldly behind it. Stumbling back, wincing as his abused knee again threatened to give out, Sam cast another worried glance at Dean, then twisted toward Durrell. "Untie me and let me check on my brother."

"You've seen that he's still breathing." Durrell's expression was stony. "Let's get on with this or that may change."

To emphasize his boss's threat, Danny moved his gun so it pointed at Dean's head.

"Shoot him and you lose your leverage with me," Sam spat. "Shoot me too, for all I care. But without my help, Gaston _will_ get to you. There's a lot more than the two of us involved in this. A lot more."

Durrell's eyes widened briefly at that revelation. He recovered quickly but Sam knew the threat had hit home. Durrell walked up to his prisoner, shaking his head. "All I've got right now is bluff and bullshit. Why shouldn't I just shoot the two of you?"

Sam snapped his gaze from Durrell to the man with the blood-stained shirt, suddenly remembering where he'd seen him before. He was the trench-coated shooter from his vision of the construction foreman's murder.

Sam glanced at Durrell, then jerked his head toward Dean's guard. "The guy with blood on his shirt: his name is Connor and he's one of your hired guns."

"So." Durrell sounded decidedly unimpressed. "Considering he just dragged your brother in here, that's not exactly a stretch to put together."

Sam shifted his stance to take the weight off his throbbing knee. "How about the fact you assigned Connor to shadow the jury foreman from Gaston's murder trial, knowing he'd also be on your partner's hit list? You wanted to grab the killer and grill him about Gaston's plan, just like you're doing with us now. But the killer recognized Connor."

Durrell shrugged as he crossed his arms. "You've done your homework…so?"

Sam turned back to Connor. "You found the killer kneeling over the body, reaching for his victim's cigarette. It was still smoking. Then he came at you with a piece of rebar, the same one he'd beaten the foreman to death with, and you took him out – shot him in the head to save your own sorry ass."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "There were three people at that construction site that night – and two were dead when I left. I took the security tapes, went over them with a fine-toothed comb. There was no one else." He smiled coldly. "Let me guess: you were in the high-rise next to the site, keeping an eye on Gaston's boy with an infrared scope? Making sure he did what Elias paid him to do?"

As soon as he spoke, Sam recognized the voice. It was Connor who'd used Dean's cell, offering to trade his brother for information.

Sam matched Connor's smile. "I was a little closer than that. Remember this." He repeated the final words Gaston had spoken through his puppet killer. "_That's why he keeps you around, isn't it? That, and he's too feeble to do his own dirty work these days. I'll give you three guesses who's next_."

Connor paled, his smile fading. "Now way were you that close...You had some kind of mic, some kind-"

"No." Sam's smile faded. "Gaston was there…watching."

"OK. You've got my attention." Durrell moved between the two men, his expression hard as his eyes jumped from Connor to Sam. "It still sounds like a con to me, but go on."

"No." Sam's jaw clenched, eyes turning back to Dean who had yet to move. "Nothing more 'til I check on my brother."

Anger flashed in Durrell's eyes but when Sam turned back to him, his stare unflinching, the old man nodded curtly. "Make it quick."

Sam's eyes locked back on Dean. "Untie me."

Durrell jerked his head at Danny, who stashed his gun in his holster and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Danny's voice was icy as he flicked open the knife.

"Hold still."

Sam felt the cold blade slide between his wrists and jerk roughly upwards, cutting through the cable tie and slashing his arm in the process. He winced as steel sliced through flesh, and glared at Danny knowing the three-inch gash that now ran from the base of his left thumb up his arm was no accident.

Danny offered another icy smile in return.

Sam turned quickly to Dean, blood trickling down his arm as he limped to his brother's side, and lowered himself stiffly to the floor.

Dean lay face down, head turned away from Sam, bound hands resting on the small of his back. The skin beneath the plastic restraint was bloody and raw, telling him his brother had been fighting to free himself for some time.

"Cut him loose." Sam turned to Durrell, eyes flashing furiously when he saw their captor start to shake his head. "Look at him. What the hell kind of threat is he?"

Durrell exhaled impatiently but he nodded at Danny. His lieutenant walked casually to Dean's side, bent down and sliced through the restraints, adding a new gash to Dean's wrists in the process. Freed from their bonds, Dean's arms fell limply to his sides.

Sam shut out the building whispers in his head, shut out Durrell's men surrounding him and focused solely on his brother. "Dean?"

There was no response.

Sam slid his fingers to Dean's neck, frowning at the erratic pulse he found there. His hands ghosted over his brother's body, mentally cataloguing the injuries before gently rolling him over. He inhaled audibly when he got his first close-up look at the damage to Dean's face.

The right side looked like raw hamburger, blood and dirt mingling with sweat to coat his battered skin from hairline to neck. His right eye was completely swollen shut, the natural depression of the socket lost beneath the angry bruising and distended skin. There was a deep gouge across his left cheek and blood and vomit stained his chin and the front of his t-shirt. He was also running a fever, his breathing was too fast and too shallow, and his body was racked by occasional tremors.

Sam placed a shaky hand on Dean's chest, his brother's heart pounding like a jackhammer beneath it. "Dean?"

His brother groaned softly in response to his name, his head flopping to the side, eyes restlessly darting back and forth beneath the closed lids. Sam slid his hand under Dean's cheek, turning his face toward him. "Come on, man. Gimme something – let me know you're still in there."

Dean's eyes remained closed but he turned slightly into his brother's touch. Sam's chest tightened. It wasn't much, but it was enough to tell him that, on some level, Dean was aware of his presence. And it was a reassurance that, like it had so often before in his life, gave Sam the strength to do what had to be done.

He screwed his eyes closed as the whispers inside his head increased in volume. He needed to push through, make the plan happen. He grasped Dean's wrist and began reciting the final part of the first incantation.

"What are you doing?" Durrell sounded half curious, half pissed.

Sam opened his eyes but kept them on Dean. "It's just a prayer." He turned Dean's arm over, drawing his fingers through the blood from the switchblade wound, as he wrapped up the first incantation.

"Well, pray later. I wanna know what Gaston's planning."

Sam ignored him, fingers ghosting up Dean's arm as he moved seamlessly to the second spell.

The old man was all-pissed now. "Enough bullshit. If you don't give me something useful in 30 seconds, I'm gonna put a bullet in your brother's kneecap – and that's just the warm-up."

The threat made Sam sick but he kept going, concentrating to remember the unfamiliar words of the ancient dark language. He finished just as Danny and Connor moved in, grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to his feet, pulling him away from Dean and forcing him to break physical contact.

Familiar, blinding pain ripped through his head, stealing his breath. Again, his knees buckled and he sagged in his captors' hold.

"Oh for fuck's sake…What now? What…" Durrell's voice faded out, replaced by that of his former partner.

"_Sam_." Gaston laughed softly. "_What's going on in this devious little mind of yours, huh? You shut me out, force me to bust my ass to find a way to take back control, and then, just when I'm almost there, you go and open the door for me_."

Pain was pushing Sam to the brink of unconsciousness but he fought to hang on, shut out Gaston's voice, block out Durrell's enraged curses and ignore the fact he was being physically dragged across the room. "You're not using me, or anyone else, any more."

Gaston sighed. "_Slow learners are such a bore_, _but even you should have figured out by now that you can't stop me_."

Sam screwed his eyes closed. "Not by myself."

Caught up in speaking his own spell, Gaston didn't question Sam's retort. His words tumbled out quickly and smoothly with practised ease. Sam cried out as pain again spiked in his head, building until it wiped out Gaston's voice and the whispers that accompanied it. It stopped as quickly as it hit, leaving complete silence in its wake. All the voices were gone but one – and it wasn't Gaston's.

"_Thank you_."

Peeling open his eyes, Sam realized he was being totally supported by Connor and Danny, his head lolling against his chest. Breathing heavily, he lifted his head and found himself staring up at Durrell's incensed face.

The old man took a swing, the blow connecting with Sam's cheek, snapping his head to the right. His vision was still fuzzy when Durrell grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

Durrell's face had reddened with anger. "Gaston always was a crazy son of bitch; figures he'd have two more crazies on his payroll." He let go of Sam's head and stepped back. "This is a waste of time." He stepped behind his desk, pulling his gun from a drawer. "I'm done with the both of you. You can watch while I kill your brother; then I'll take care of you."

"Doing your own dirty work, Mike? I'm impressed. Surprised, but impressed."

Durrell's head snapped toward the caustic voice. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face at the sight of Elias Gaston in the center of the room.

His former partner stood dressed as he did before he went to prison: dark shirt and pants under a long, dark duster coat. His lank, dark hair hung below his shoulders, the distinctive white streak almost like a lightning bolt.

Connor and Danny dropped Sam, spun around and drew their guns, but their eyes were as wide as their boss's as they moved protectively in front of him.

Gaston smiled as he studied the three men standing in front of him. "My, my, my – the gang's all here."

Sam rolled onto his back and stared up at the figure who had haunted him since his surgery. The incantation had worked, forced Gaston to appear in his own form. His gaze darted from Gaston to Durrell then to his men. Each had their eyes, and their guns, locked on the spectral figure standing in front of them. Given that Dean had not been able to see Gaston in the desert, Sam had feared he might be the only one able to see the astral projection. But whether his incantation or Gaston's had made the difference, the con was now definitely visible to everyone in the room.

Durrell shot a glare at Sam before quickly returning his focus to Gaston. "What the hell kind of trick is this?"

"No trick." Sam coughed as he dragged himself across the floor toward Dean. "Looks like your partner here has mastered the art of astral projection."

Gaston clapped slowly. "Bravo, Sam. You've done your homework."

Sam reached Dean's side and slumped against the wall. He felt tired, drained, but, on some level, strangely relieved that Gaston was in the room and not in his head. "It's what you've been working on all this time, right?"

Gaston walked over to Sam, stretching languidly, as if waking muscles that hadn't been used in a while. "Projecting over great distances requires a lot of…fuel, for want of a better word. The others were too weak. Oh, I could hitchhike, control them, but using their energy to appear in my own form would have put too great a strain on them. It was more important to get the job done."

Sam's voice hardened. "Kill those who sent you prison, you mean."

"Exactly." There was no guilt in Gaston's tone, only satisfaction.

Anger sparked a flood of adrenaline, briefly restoring Sam's strength. He sat up and glared at Gaston, his hand resting protectively on his unconscious brother. "And the three innocent men you used to kill them."

"Road kill. Couldn't be helped." Gaston crouched down in front of Sam, studying him intently. "What is it about you…Why are you so different from the others?" Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward and grabbed Sam's arm.

Sam inhaled sharply, looking down in shock. He could feel Gaston's fingers tightening painfully around his biceps. Unlike back at the motel room when he'd been little more than a flickering image, Gaston now had a physical presence.

"Surprise." Gaston's smile was icy. "I've been working on this, but didn't quite have all the pieces in place…until now." He let go of Sam, stood up and slowly turned in a circle, surveying the room and sizing up its occupants. He frowned at the two guards by the door, who also stood with their guns raised awaiting Durrell's orders.

Gaston shook his head, slowly rubbing his hands together. "I wonder..." He shoved his hands forward; the two guards were lifted off their feet and thrown through the doorway, slamming into the wall on the far side of the corridor before crumpling to the floor in a shower of plaster dust. Gaston flicked his wrist and the heavy oak door slammed shut, blocking them from sight.

Gaston turned back into the room, his expression smug. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Sam slumped back against the wall, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He blinked to clear his vision and stared at Gaston in surprise.

Gaston walked back to Sam, crouching down in front of him. "Oh, did I forget to mention...I'm drawing the energy I need from you. Think of yourself as my fuel tank."

Sam's eyes widened in shock, Bobby's warning replaying through his head. "_You let him lose, no telling what he might do_." He swallowed. No, this had to be done; it was the only way to stop Gaston for good.

Gaston laughed, pushing himself up. "Let me guess; you opened the door, thinking I'd be some flickering hologram with no power?" He snorted derisively as he turned to face Durrell. "All my life people have underestimated me – isn't that right, Mike?"

Durrell's expression hardened. "I never underestimated you, Elias. Distrusted? Absolutely. It's always wise to distrust a snake."

Sam pushed himself up, eyes glued on the showdown playing out in front of him. Biting back a groan, he reached forward and pulled Dean to him, carefully sitting up his brother beside him, then wrapping his arm protectively around him so Dean leaned against him, his head resting on Sam's chest. Dean mumbled softly but didn't wake. "It's just me," Sam said quietly. "Hang in there. You'll be okay...Help's on the way – at least I hope it is."

Durrell stepped forward, pushing apart his two guards so he could get a clear view of Gaston. His expression was a mix of fear and loathing. "How the hell is this possible?"

"Let's just say it's beyond your scope of understanding." Gaston's smile widened. "But know this: this little meeting would not be possible if you hadn't hired that idiot to stab me in the prison yard." He laughed. "Gotta love how irony can bite you in the ass."

Durrell's fear quickly turned to rage. "Take him out."

Sam threw himself over Dean as Connor and Danny each fired three shots into Gaston. The bullets passed straight through him, three burying themselves in the plaster wall, one in the ceiling, one in the office door and one in a steel filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

As the retort from the gunshots faded, it was replaced by Gaston's laugh. He shook his head, raising his arms wide, his image flickering twice. "Put the damn guns away, Mike. They can't hurt me."

"What the hell's goin' on?"

Sam, still curled over Dean, jumped at the sound of his brother's muffled voice. He slowly lifted his head and glanced down at Dean, who was squirming in his hold, trying to pull free as awareness returned. "You wanna cuddle, Sam, get a date."

But Sam just tightened his hold, eyes darting up to Gaston who had taken a step toward Durrell. "Keep still," Sam hissed. "We're in the middle of a freakin' firefight."

He felt Dean tense, instinct more than conscious thought fuelling his brother's actions. Dean frowned up at Sam, blinking heavily as his mind cleared slowly. "Sammy? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'll explain later." Sam quickly checked over Dean. His brother's right eye remained swollen shut and his left eye was bloodshot and watering. He still shook violently and slumped against him, Sam could feel his heart racing and the heat from a building fever. "For now, just stay down."

Sam looked up again, his gaze jumping between Gaston and Durrell, who were staring each other down, flanked by Danny and Connor.

Dean weakly turned his head away from Sam's chest, for the first time taking in the standoff between Gaston and Durrell. Given his brother's injuries, Sam wasn't sure how much he could actually see.

"Is that-"

Enough, apparently. "Gaston, yeah."

"How-"

"Psychic projection."

"Oh." Dean weakly gripped the arm Sam had wrapped around him. "Can he –"

"– control me? No. I've shut him out. But he can see and hear what's going on…" Sam's jaw clenched at the memory of Durrell's men being thrown through the door. "Interact physically, too."

Dean rolled his head to scowl up at his brother. "Quit finishing my sentences."

Sam kept his voice low although no one in the room was currently paying attention to the two of them. "If I can find something to cut your ankles free, think you can drag yourself over toward the door, be ready to make a break when we get the chance?"

Dean nodded, trying – and failing – to push himself away from Sam. "As long as you're dragging your ass right behind me."

Sam again tightened his hold. "Just wait. They're still waving guns around right now. Let your batteries recharge for a minute. But be ready. When I say go, go."

Dean mumbled something but the only word Sam could make out was 'bossy.' Sam's attention returned to Gaston and Durrell. "Look, we get out of here in one piece, we go right back to you bossing me around, deal?"

Dean reached up and grabbed Sam's shirt, then weakly patted his chest. "Deal."

Dean then followed Sam's gaze and frowned at the four men at the center of the room. Durrell's eyes were fixed on Gaston and, flanking their boss, Danny and Connor kept their weapons trained on his former partner.

Gaston sighed. "This standoff is getting tiresome." He glanced from Connor to Danny, then closed his eyes, muttered something under his breath, then twisted his right hand, then his left. The guns flew from the two bodyguards' hands, through the air toward Gaston, landing at his feet.

Sam's vision slid in and out of focus as the earlier dizziness returned. He frowned, shaking his head to clear it.

Gaston closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and clenching and unclenching his fists. When his eyes slid open, he turned his attention to Danny. Walking toward him, he looked him over and smiled. "Ah, the young pup. Full of piss and vinegar, always spoiling for a fight to prove himself to the old man."

Danny glared at Gaston, but stayed silent.

Gaston shook his head slowly. "And you know he resents you, right? Always did despise anyone younger, stronger, better than he was in any way." He shot a glance at Durrell, eyes burning with hatred. "He resented me and look what happened." He turned back to Danny. "It's only a matter of time before he turns on you."

Danny snapped. In one fluid move he reached into his pocket, pulled out his blade and slashed it through Gaston. Had Gaston been real, the strike would have been deadly but the knife only caused his psychic energy to flicker.

Gaston's eyes flashed as he muttered something under his breath and slammed his hand into Danny's chest. Danny flew up in the air, his knife flying from his grasp as he smashed into the ceiling and then dropped to the floor, his neck at a strange angle.

Dean tensed in Sam's hold. "That's not good. Takes some heavy-assed dark magic to do that."

"I know." Sam's head was spinning again but, as the dizziness passed, his gaze fell on Danny's knife which had come to rest in front of a filing cabinet about eight feet away from the brothers. His eyes jumped from Gaston to Durrell to Connor. Again, none was paying attention to the two Winchesters. Sam gently sat his brother up and leaned him against the wall. "Stay there," he muttered. "I'm gonna get that knife."

Dean weakly grabbed Sam's arm. "You get yourself shot, I'm gonna be pissed."

As Dean released his hold, Sam slowly dragged himself along the floor toward the knife, closely watching the three men at the center of the room as he moved.

Gaston's attention was now on Durrell's right-hand man. "Connor – it's been a while." He chuckled. "I'm not gonna count the other night at the construction site. I wasn't…myself."

Connor stood his ground, chest heaving as he held Gaston's gaze. "Still the son of a bitch you always were."

Gaston traced a ghostly finger down the blood spatters on Connor's shirt. "Pots and kettles, Connor." He shook his head. "But that's how you've lasted all these years isn't it. You never did mind getting your hands dirty. Liked it, even. How many have there been since Sonny, huh?"

"Sonny's murder was your idea." Connor snapped. "Your kill."

"True." Gaston smiled, waving his finger between Durrell and Connor. "But you two were onboard from Day One. Enjoyed _questioning_ him about how much money he'd taken from the business every bit as much as I did. Couldn't wait to get your hands on his cash, on his shares of the company." His smile faded. "But when the cops came sniffing around, all that loyalty vanished. You threw me to the wolves."

Now it was Connor's turn to smile. "You got caught because you were sloppy. You've got no one to blame but yourself."

"Wrong." Gaston's eyes flashed angrily. "I blame you." He slammed his hand into Connor's chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him effortlessly through the air and into the third-story window that overlooked the harbor. The window exploded in a shower of glass as Connor smashed through it, falling lifelessly out of sight.

Sam's fingers had just curled around Danny's knife as the window blew out. He raised his arm to protect his face but twisted around to check on Dean. His brother had thrown himself to the floor, his arm wrapped around his head, instinct guiding him even when conscious thought couldn't.

As the last of the glass fell, Sam pushed himself up – only to topple over, again felled by dizziness. He lay on the floor, blinking in surprise at how quickly Gaston was stealing his energy.

With a groan, he pushed himself up again, falling back against the wall. Two Gastons and two Durrells now faced off in the center of the room and the light in the ceiling had developed a halo around it. Sam screwed his eyes closed then forced them open. Both Gastons turned toward him.

"What's the matter, Sammy?" Gaston's voice had developed a strange echo. "Running out of gas?"

Durrell glanced from Gaston to Sam, his eyes narrowing. He swung his gun around suddenly, pointing it at Sam. Gaston caught the movement and yanked the gun from Durrell's hand just as he pulled the trigger, sending the shot high. The bullet slammed into the wall above Sam's head, sending crumbling plaster raining down on him.

The adrenaline rush of the near miss helped clear Sam's head and briefly roused Dean, his protective instincts immediately seeking out his brother the second the bullet fired. He made it as far as sitting up before collapsing back against the wall.

Sam turned back to the center of the room where Gaston turned his attention from the gun in his hand to Durrell. "Very good, Mike. Take out the gas tank, get rid of me. Didn't take you long to put that together." He laughed as he tossed the gun to the far side of the room. "But, as usual, I'm one step ahead of you." He shook his head as he turned to Sam. "As for you, we'll have to work on your endurance. I'm having too much fun to cut this party short."

"No." Now it was Sam's turn to glare. "No more. You're done hurting innocent people." His chest tightened when he saw a translucent figure begin to form behind Gaston.

"Innocent?" Gaston glanced down at Danny's body, then up at Durrell. "They were never innocent. They–"

"I'm talking about Donald Chapman. Harley Newton. Jack Monroe. Innocent men you turned into puppet killers," Sam snapped, trying to keep the killer's attention on him. "I'm talking about Judge Matthews. T.J. Renton. Thomas Gibson – men you killed just for doing their job. You put them all through hell before they died. Put their families through hell." He held Gaston's gaze. "You're done."

"I don't think so." Gaston strode toward the younger Winchester, hovering threateningly over him. "We're done when I say we are, not before."

Sam smiled coldly at Gaston's building anger. "Careful. You can't hurt me or you lose your link."

Gaston's eyes glittered with fury. "I may need you, but I don't need your brother." He turned toward Dean, raising his hand and squeezing his fingers into a fist.

Dean stayed slumped against the wall, his only reaction a frown as he looked from his brother to Gaston and his raised hand. When nothing happened, Dean weakly lifted his own hand in response, raising the middle finger.

Gaston wheeled on Sam, surprise evident through his rage.

Sam shook his head. "Threatening Dean to try to control me? Like I didn't see that one coming." He motioned with his head toward Dean, then drew a finger down his forearm. "I jury-rigged a little protection before you even showed up at this shindig."

Dean rolled his arm over, blinking in surprise at the blood marks Sam had drawn there. In combination with the incantation Sam had read, they shut out Gaston, protecting Dean from the killer's anger. Dean snorted as looked blearily over at this brother. "Go Sammy."

Sam's smile faded as his energy levels dipped again. Gaston's failed attack on Dean had siphoned off even more strength. He dropped his head back against the wall, swiping a hand over his eyes. If he passed out, he was sure the link with Gaston would be severed, but it would also cut off the apparition. He needed to hang on long enough for him to break through. It was the only way to end this for good.

Gaston seemed to know his time was running out. He glared at Sam, frustration mixing with rage as he flickered, growing more translucent, before wheeling on Durrell. Stalking toward his one-time friend, he stopped right in front of him, eyes burning with years of bitterness and resentment. Durrell didn't flinch. As if sensing the inevitable, he squared his shoulders and offered Gaston a deadly smile. "Go to hell."

"You first." Gaston returned the smile in kind, then slammed his hand into Durrell's chest. It passed through skin and bone until his fingers closed around his former partner's heart.

Durrell's smile vanished, his eyes widening in shock. His mouth opened, fighting to draw in air as his heart was crushed in Gaston's hand. It beat slower, and slower, before stopping for good. Gaston stared at the vacant eyes, savoring the victory, before yanking out his hand. Durrell dropped lifelessly at his feet.

Gaston stepped back, his smile turning smug. "This time, I win."

Dragging himself toward Dean, the last of Sam's energy disappeared with Gaston's attack on Durrell. His arms gave way and he collapsed, face first, to the floor. He blinked heavily, staring over at the forming apparition, willing it to hurry up. "Come on, come on, come on…"

With one final smile at Durrell's corpse, Gaston turned threateningly to Sam. "You shouldn't have crossed me." He glared at Dean. "As payback, your brother just moved to the top of my list."

He frowned as he caught Sam's glance to the back of the room and whirled around, for the first time catching sight of the apparition. "What's this…?"

He moved toward the apparition, now definitely human in form but still unrecognizable, circled it and then glared back at Sam. "More tricks?"

Sam swallowed, barely able to keep his head up let alone form a retort.

Gaston snorted derisively. "Whatever. This party's over." He smiled at Dean, who now sat slumped forward, chin on chest, barely conscious. "Watch out for your brother, Sammy. I'll take him from you when you least expect it."

He laughed, muttered a brief incantation and then faded from sight.

As he vanished, the apparition suddenly broke through as if with Gaston no longer draining Sam's energy, the way was clear. He flickered, disappeared, then reappeared in front of Sam, staring down at the younger Winchester.

Sam's eyes slid closed. "He's…gone."

The apparition shook his head. "_It was enough._ _Now, I can finish this_."

Sam had a thousand questions but they all disappeared with the apparition as unconsciousness reached out and pulled him under.

xxxXXXxxx

Elias Gaston's eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply. He was staring up at the sterile, white ceiling of his solitary confinement cell.

He smiled as he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the edge of his bunk.

After 20 years behind bars, he'd finally gotten his revenge – killed Durrell with his own hands as payback for stealing his business, his freedom, his life.

His smile faded quickly. But what had changed for him? Nothing.

His eyes darted around the small, windowless cell, bitterness and fury burning like acid in his gut. He was still trapped like a rat in this shithole, cut off from his money and the life it could support, the life that should have been his all along.

He stared in disgust as the bright orange jumpsuit he wore. One of the first things Littlejohn had taught him as he mastered the art of astral projection was that he could manipulate his image at will, dress himself in whatever manner he wished. It was the first time in 15 years he'd seen himself in anything but prison orange, but that was about to change.

He pushed himself up, striding over to the cell door and slamming his fist against it. "Guard!"

It was time the good-for-nothing lawyers he'd been keeping in Armani suits and BMWs for the past two decades earned their goddamned money and got him out of this place. Failed appeal after failed appeal, they'd blamed Durrell – he was working against them, paying off judges, bribing prison officials. It was just one excuse after another. Now those excuses were gone.

Again, he slammed his fist into the door. "Guard!"

And if they let him down? Well, he'd take care of them the way he took care of Durrell.

Sam Winchester was a true find. Even he'd been amazed by what he'd been able to accomplish while connected to Sam. Using the others as puppet killers had been convenient, got the job done, but there had been little satisfaction in it. But this, to be able to siphon off his puppet's strength and enjoy the thrill of the kill himself…to know his victims saw his face, rather than some milquetoast stranger he was forced to cloak himself inside of…

His mouth twisted into a deadly smile. He'd have free rein to mete out vengeance with no fear of being caught.

This Sam kid still had too much control though, seemed able to block him out when he put his mind to it. Gaston shook his head. He'd have to talk to Littlejohn, dig into his mentor's bag of dark magic tricks to find out how wrest away that control, make the kid answer to him. And then he'd get rid of Sam's brother.

"_No_."

Gaston spun around in surprise at the sound of the voice behind him, eyes darting wildly around his empty cell. He shuddered as the temperature dropped suddenly, his breath clouding in front of him as he exhaled.

Gaston stepped away from the door, canting his head suspiciously as fog began coalescing on the far side of the cell, taking on human form as it solidified. It was a man, a shade under six feet tall, with sandy brown hair, blue eyes and of an average build. In fact, everything about him was average. Gaston had never seen him before.

The translucent figure stared at him, sadness clear in his haunted expression.

Gaston scowled at the specter, too incensed to be scared. "You were at Durrell's office. What the hell do you want?"

The spirit disappeared, then reappeared right in front of Gaston, sorrow morphing seamlessly into fury. "_What's mine_."

Gaston had no chance to react. The spirit drove his arm into the killer's abdomen, then yanked it out, his hand clutching a bloody mass. Gaston's agonized scream echoed off the walls of the cell as he fell back against the door and slid to the ground, eyes wide with shock and fixed on the spirit standing over him.

The spirit stared down at him, blood dripping from the organ in his hand. He shook his head sadly as he faded from sight. "_You lose_."

Prison guards responding to Gaston's scream arrived moments later. They yanked open the door as the electronic bolts slid back and Gaston fell backwards into the corridor, eyes wide open, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood still running from the gaping hole in his torso.

An autopsy would later confirm his liver was missing.

Organ donor Nick Haskell had reclaimed what was rightfully his.

**_To Be Continued…_**

**_A/N:_**_ I think some of you had guessed where this was going; hopefully it still lived up to the build-up. I'd love to hear what you think. The boys are battered but back together, so there's plenty of h/c in the final chapter, up Wednesday. And then the new season begins Thursday *happy dance* Thanks so much for reading. Cheers._


	9. Chapter 9

**PUPPETMASTER**

**SUMMARY: **_As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy._ _Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences_.

**RATED:**_T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb_**. **

**DISCLAIMER****: **_I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created._

**A/N: **_Sigh! RL just does not respect a posting schedule. A bit later than promised but here is the final chapter. Again, a huge thanks to everyone who has followed this little adventure, suffered through my cliffhangers and sent along such wonderful feedback – I'm incredibly grateful. To my betas, Ann and Amy, this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. This final chapter was written without a medical beta so any mistakes on that score are completely mine. Hope you enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 9**

"Sammy?"

Sam frowned without opening his eyes. His brother sounded worried. And when the worry was wrapped around his name – especially the diminutive form – he didn't need two guesses to know who Dean was worried about. "M'okay."

"No…you're not. But we need to go."

Sam's frown deepened. Go where?

As he did so often, Dean seemed to read his mind. "I'm a little fuzzy on what just went down, but I'm pretty sure there are two dead bodies over there and another went out the window." He paused, as if to catch his breath. "Won't take long for cops to show, and we really don't wanna be here when they do."

The showdown between Durrell and Gaston replayed in Sam's head on fast-forward.

He forced open his eyes and lifted his head with a groan, another vision-worthy headache accompanying his return to consciousness. He blinked, ignoring the black dots and white lights bouncing through his vision as he focused on his brother.

Sam was lying on his stomach where he'd fallen after Gaston's attacks had siphoned off the last of his energy. Dean was sitting on the floor just in front of him, slumped against the wall, his head hanging forward, arms held limply in his lap. His legs were stretched out in front of him, his bare feet still lashed at the ankles. He was trembling as if he was cold and his breathing was shallow and audible.

Sam hissed in pain as he knee protested the clumsy process of rolling over and sitting up.

"What is it?" Dean's eyes were closed but there was nothing wrong with his instincts when it came to Sam.

"Nothing. I'm just…stiff." Sam dragged himself to Dean's side, his knee throbbing in time with the pounding in his head. Anger built quickly as he studied his brother's battered face. "What the hell did they do to you?"

Dean grimaced as he pulled his head up and dropped it back against the wall to look at Sam. "We went a few rounds. No big deal. Let's just get out of here."

"You keep saying that, but you're not moving." Sam glanced around, spotting Danny's knife on the floor a few feet away from him. Leaning over with a groan, he grabbed it then turned back to his brother. "Seriously, Dean, how bad is it?"

Dean stared blearily at Sam for a moment, then turned his face away. "I'm fine. Just-"

"Don't you shut me out." Worry further stoked Sam's anger. "I've seen you beat to hell way more than I should. This…there's something more." His voice softened as Dean turned back toward him. "Let me help, damn it."

Dean curled his hands into fists to stop them shaking. His voice was barely audible. "Drugs."

Sam froze at the word, his fingers underneath the cable tie, carefully pulling it away from his brother's skin as he prepared to cut through it. "What did they give you?"

Dean shook his head slowly. "Dunno. Some kind of speed, I think."

"Speed?" Sam spat out the word, snapping the knife blade upwards and cutting through the tie, the anger in his eyes in complete contrast to the deftly gentle way he removed the restraint from Dean's ankles to ensure no further injury. He snapped the knife closed and shoved it and the broken plastic restraint in his jeans pocket. "How much?"

"What?"

"How much did they give you?"

Dean frowned. "Cranked me up twice, I think…gave me something else to knock me out when they brought me here." He snorted as he looked again at his brother. "Jesus, Sam – I don't even know where _here_ is. Where the hell are we?"

"Durrell's dockyard." Sam grabbed Dean's wrist, scowling at the sluggish pulse beneath his fingers, and holding on easily as Dean weakly tried to pull his arm away. Sam shook his head. The skin around Dean's swollen right eye was now turning vivid shades of purple, red, blue and black. His left eye was a narrow slit, bloodshot white and dilated pupil all but hiding the familiar green. "Can you even see me?

Dean smiled tiredly. "The blurry look suits you." He clumsily shook off Sam's hold, grabbing his brother's shirt. "Never mind me. What the hell happened to you? One minute you're all badass, giving Gaston all kinds of grief; the next, its nap time for Sammy." He tightened his grip, his hand shaking noticeably. "They drug you too?"

"No. No drugs. It was Gaston." Sam exhaled audibly. "Whatever psychic energy he needed to…do what he did here, to attack those men, he pulled from me. The more he did, the more light-headed I got, the weaker I felt, until…lights out."

"And now?"

"Just tired."

Sam began to push himself up but Dean pulled him closer, frowning. "Why isn't the protection symbol working?"

Sam shook his head. Even beat to hell, Dean was more worried about his brother than himself. "I wiped off the bloodmarks."

"What?"

Sam sighed, wishing this conversation could wait but, short of losing consciousness, Dean wasn't about to let it drop. "You warned us they were skeptics. The best way I could think of to get them to believe Gaston was behind all this was for them to see him. We…adapted the symbol so he could appear through astral projection, but couldn't take over."

Dean's unfocused gaze slid past Sam to Durrell's body. "So you knew Gaston could…do this?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Last time he showed up he couldn't even grab my arm. This…" He turned to look at Danny's body, at Durrell's and at the glass window Connor had been thrown through. "…was all new. If I'd known…hey."

Dean was suddenly sliding down the wall away from him. Sam grabbed him by the arms and gently sat him up. "Okay, recap can wait. Like you said, we need to get out of here."

Dean nodded, closed his eyes, then smacked Sam in the chest.

Sam's eyes widened. "What the hell was that for?"

Dean peered up at his brother. "For walking in here…putting yourself in the line of fire to save my sorry ass. You know better."

Sam smiled. In Dean-speak, that was a thank you. "You're welcome. Now you think you can stand?"

Dean's jaw set stubbornly. "Soon as you cut me free."

Sam's worry ratcheted up a notch. "You're already free."

Dean frowned as he blinked down at his ankles. "Damn. When'd you do that?"

"Tell me again how you're fine." Sam pushed himself closer to the wall, using it for balance as he hauled himself to his feet. His face contorted with pain as he shifted his weight to his right leg. "Gah-"

"Sammy?"

Sam fell back against the wall, quickly shifting his weight to his left leg, screwing his eyes closed as he waited for the pain to dissipate. "Damn it. I think my knee's screwed."

"Your bad knee?"

"It wasn't bad anymore," Sam muttered as he leaned down and pressed his fingers into the side of his knee. Beneath his jeans, the joint was tender and swollen. "At least until that bastard kicked it."

"He kicked…son of a bitch…" Anger seemed to rouse Dean a little.

"Whatever." Sam exhaled loudly, found his balance and then offered a hand to Dean. "We'll deal with it after we get you to a hospital."

Dean reached up to grab Sam's arm but was already shaking his head. "No. An ice pack and one of your leftover happy pills…I'll be fine. You can just-"

"They drugged you, Dean." Now Sam was using his anger at what Durrell's men had done to Dean to push through his pain. "We need to find out exactly what they pumped you full of, and that means a hospital. Now. No arguments."

Dean snorted. "Damn, you sound like Dad when you go all Full Metal Jacket like that." He locked his hand around Sam's wrist. "Course, you'd need a serious hair cut for the full effect."

"Shut up, Dean. You ready?" When Dean nodded, Sam braced himself with his left leg and hauled his brother to his feet. Dean was vertical for about two seconds before what little color he had left behind the bruising drained from his face and he toppled forward, falling against Sam.

Sam grimaced at the strain on his knee as caught his brother but, by locking both arms around Dean's waist and letting his left leg take the weight, he saved them both a fall.

Dean's face was pressed against Sam's chest, muffling his voice. "Good catch."

It was at that moment that the door to the office flew open, and two men dressed in jeans, plaid shirts and trucker's caps entered the room with shotguns raised. Two more men, similarly dressed, followed right behind.

The shorter of the first two men raised an eyebrow at the sight of the two brothers, Sam clinging tightly to Dean as he stood slumped against him. "You Johnny Winchester's boys?"

Sam frowned. "Who wants to know?"

The man nodded. "Ricky Gonzalez." He motioned with his head to his partner. "That's O'Brien. Behind me are Cooper and Fuentes. Bobby Singer said you might need a hand."

O'Brien smiled. "Actually, what he said was, 'Those two idjits might need a hand.'"

Sam relaxed visibly. Dean rolled his head to the side, groaning as he took in the strangers. "This is so not how I pictured my rescue." His knees buckled suddenly and he started to slide out of Sam's hold.

Sam gritted his teeth as he tried to keep them both upright. "Um, could use a hand here."

Gonzalez and O'Brien quickly handed off their guns to Cooper and Fuentes, and moved forward to help. Seconds later, Dean was supported between the two men, each with an arm around his waist and his arms pulled across their shoulders.

O'Brien shook his head as he took in the state of his charge. "Damn, kid. You're a mess."

Dean shifted uneasily. "I'm fine. I just-"

"He's not fine." Sam was struggling to find his balance. "They beat the crap out of him, they drugged him with god knows what...damn it." He almost went down again as he tried to limp toward Dean.

Gonzalez raised an eyebrow. "You don't look so hot yourself."

"His knee's screwed," Dean mumbled between coughs.

Gonzalez nodded at Sam. "Right. Coop, you're the tallest: you're best suited to help Stretch walk out of here." He glanced from one brother to the other. "But, first, any unfriendlies we should know about?"

Sam shrugged. "In here, no. Out there – who knows."

O'Brien shook his head. "Nah, we cleared a path outside. We're good to go. But we need to be quick. We heard some chatter on the police radio. Somebody called in possible gunshots. 5-0 will be poking around here soon." He glanced around the room, taking in the two bodies and the broken window. "Fuentes is our janitor. What kind of clean up are we looking at?"

Sam's eyebrows peaked. "Scuze me?"

"He'll get rid of any evidence you two were ever part of this. Where should he look?"

"Right." Sam mentally kicked himself for the lapse. They'd often run into militaristic hunter teams but the events of the past few days were starting to catch up with him. "Sorry. Not thinking straight." Sam screwed his eyes closed, retracing his steps. "They took some clothes and my phone when I got here. Last I saw them, they were in the room to the right of the entrance, first floor. I boosted a car to get here, dark blue Ford, parked on the far side of the street by the main gate. Any blood on this side of the room or by the entrance is likely mine or my brother's."

Gonzalez nodded. "Good." He turned to Dean. "What about you, son. You thinking clearly enough to give us any intel?"

"Always." Dean's response was emphatic but he was sagging more heavily in his rescuers' hold. "Woke up in a windowless room… they took my boots…my phone…" He was struggling to hold up his head, let alone remember details. "They shot me full of some crap…they-"

"Durrell has security cameras all over this place." Sam motioned with his head toward Durrell's desk. "Last image he called up on that computer was the room where Dean was being held."

Fuentes was already moving behind the desk. "Good. That'll tell us where it is and I'll scrub any footage of the two of you in the process." He nodded at Gonzalez. "Won't take me long. Get those two out of here."

Less than five minutes later, Gonzalez was settling Dean into the passenger-side back seat of Coop's SUV, which was parked right by the door. Sam noted that none of Durrell's people were around and that the front gate to the dockyard was swinging open. Apparently, Gonzalez's team didn't mess around.

Coop held open the rear door on the driver's side of the SUV, and Sam maneuvered himself inside the vehicle, swearing softly as he bent his injured knee. Once in, he nodded at Coop, who slammed the door and climbed behind the wheel.

Gonzalez, standing in front of the open door next to Dean, nodded reassuringly at Sam. "Hospital's less than 15 minutes away. Coop'll take you straight there."

"We've got everything we need back at the motel," Dean grumbled. "Just take us-"

"Don't listen to him." Sam glared at Dean.

"Don't worry, I won't." Gonzalez smiled. "I've got my orders."

Dean scowled. "Whose orders?"

"I believe you boys know a Doc Caine."

Dean rolled his head toward Gonzalez. "Doc? What's she doing here? This isn't her town."

Sam winced as he shifted in his seat, still trying to find a comfortable way to sit and keep an eye on his brother. "She's worried about you, Dean. Bobby told her Durrell's men grabbed you. She said she was gonna make her way to L.A. so she could help when we got you back."

Gonzalez nodded. "She thumbed a ride with a mercy flight to Cedars-Sinai." He checked his watch. "Landed about an hour ago, then cabbed it over to Community General. She'll be there when you roll in." He glanced again at Sam. "You good?"

When Sam nodded, Gonzalez slammed the door closed and banged twice on the roof, signaling Coop to put the SUV in gear and steer the vehicle out of the dockyard and toward the hospital.

xxxXXXxxx

After the organized chaos that accompanied their arrival at the ER, Sam welcomed the current respite. The examinations and tests were done and the relentless questions answered – most truthfully, some more creatively.

He and Dean had been left alone in an ER exam room, waiting for the doctors to return for the next round of poking and prodding, and with the next slate of bad news.

Sam shifted uncomfortably on the gurney. The head of the stretcher was raised to a 45-degree angle, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. The right leg of his jeans had been cut open to mid-thigh, a chemical ice-pack wrapped around his knee and an IV inserted into the back of his left hand to deliver painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Bruises from the punches he'd taken at the hands of Durrell's men were starting to blossom and his muscles beginning to stiffen.

As promised, Doc had met them when they arrived at the hospital, paling at the state of the two brothers but quickly shifting into doctor mode as the Winchesters were wheeled into the ER. She'd had a cover story in place to explain both her presence and the drugs in Dean's system – something about FBI agents and a drug smuggling investigation gone bad – but Sam hadn't paid attention to the details. His focus was solely on Dean, who had faded noticeably on the ride to the hospital, the last of his energy seemingly dissipating the minute he knew each of them was safe.

Sam glanced over at his brother, who now lay asleep on a gurney to his right. Dean's street clothes had disappeared at some point during the numerous tests he'd undergone, replaced by a thin cotton hospital gown and the two blue blankets draped over him. The head of the gurney was raised and the safety rails locked in place, a defense against the occasionally violent tremors that still racked him. The right side of his face was heavily bandaged, the bruising spilling out from under the wrapping, traveling down his chin, across his nose and up his forehead into his hairline.

Both wrists were lightly bandaged, hiding the damage his struggles with the cable tie had caused, and the middle and index fingers of his left hand were taped together while the cracked bones healed.

Wires that disappeared inside the neck of his hospital gown led to sensors that tracked his still erratic heartbeat, the monitor at the side of his gurney in silent mode, and an IV in his left arm was helping to flush the street drugs from his system.

Sam stomach lurched as he mentally catalogued the physical damage, flashing back suddenly to the hospital after the crash with the semi and the doctor's words that had ripped through him then: "_If_ he wakes up." Dean's injuries this time weren't life-threatening but they'd reawakened his fears of losing his brother, and of just how quickly it could happen.

Sam snapped out of his reverie as another nasty tremor ripped through his brother, followed by a groan. "Dean?" He leaned forward worriedly. "Hey."

Dean rolled his head tiredly toward Sam. "What?"

"You need a doctor?"

"Nah. If I need a doc, I've got this thing." Dean dragged his hand over the call button resting on the gurney beside his head.

Sam nodded slowly. Dean sounded tired but the most coherent he'd been since they landed at the hospital. "Seriously, man, how you doing?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Don't feel like I'm on another planet any more. That's good, I guess." He rolled slowly onto his side to face Sam after glancing around the empty exam room. "Where is everybody?"

"Collecting test results. Doc's gone to see is she can hurry things up so we know what's what."

"Good." Dean looked blearily at his brother. "What about you? Your leg?"

Sam shrugged. "Knee's swollen but I don't think it's anything major. They did an MRI to be sure. Like you, I'm waiting for the results."

Dean sounded suspicious. "Nothing else?"

"No." Sam glanced down at his right leg. "Unless you count the fact they killed my last pair of jeans."

"Great. Sammy shopping to look forward to." Dean groaned as another tremor ripped through him.

"Dean?"

"Gimme a sec." After a moment, Dean peeled open his left eye. "Okay, I'm good."

"Really?" Sam studied his brother worriedly. "I think we should get the doctor in here to-"

"No." Dean started to shake his head then thought better of it. "It's that crap Durrell's bastards shot me up with. The docs said this is likely to keep happening until it's out of my system." He looked up at his brother. "Distract me – fill me in on what happened. Everything's kind of fuzzy."

Sam nodded. "Sure. Where do you want me to start?"

"I'm not sure what's real and what's not. Back at Durrell's office, just before Gaston disappeared…was I seeing things or was there-"

"…a spirit?"

The bandages couldn't hide Dean's surprise. "So it was real? Or…you know what I mean.?"

Sam nodded.

Dean's left eye slid closed, relief evident in his voice. "Good. Maybe my head's not quite as screwed as I thought."

Sam smiled. "I wouldn't go that far."

Dean shot Sam a look. "Bitch. Any idea who the spook is?"

"Yeah." Sam stared down at his knee, frowning at the sloppy ice pack that was long past offering relief. "Nick Haskell."

Dean fought to place the name. "Haskell? He's the-"

"…organ donor." Sam pulled the ice pack from his leg and tossed it onto the cabinet beside his gurney.

"And he's-"

"…the one who's been asking for help." Sam turned toward to his brother. "The second voice in my head."

"Oh." Dean winced as he grabbed the safety rail of the gurney to hitch himself up. "And he wanted help to-"

"…break through. Go after Gaston."

"You've really gotta quit finishing my sentences." Dean shifted again, trying to get comfortable. "But this is good , right? Now we've got a spectral hitman on our side."

Sam exhaled slowly. "Gaston's dead, Dean."

Dean's grip on the safety rail tightened. "Damn. He works fast."

Sam shook his head. "We don't know for sure it was him. While you were going through that last batch of tests, Gonzalez got a message through to Doc. Hunter grapevine says Gaston was found dead in his cell, but no details, so far."

Dean's grip on the safety rail tightened as he waited for another tremor to pass. "Way too big a coincidence for my money."

Sam nodded.

Dean rolled onto his back, biting back a groan. Sam didn't miss the fact that there was a lengthy pause before his brother spoke. "Remind me to hoist a glass to Haskell when we get out of here." Dean looked over at Sam. "And kick your ass for your buckets o' crazy rescue plan."

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, I-"

"Hilts, Sammy." Dean turned again to face his brother. "You know what that means: get the hell out, lie low until it's safe – not make yourself the red flag in a tug-of-war between two sets of nasties."

Sam swallowed. "I had to."

"No you didn't. I would've figured something out."

"Look what they did to you, Dean." Sam sat up, leaning toward his brother. "I was on the other end of the phone when they grabbed you - had to listen while they beat the crap out of you, while they dragged you away. I took the call from Connor when he gave me thirty minutes to show up or he'd kill you. Thirty minutes. You really think I was just gonna do nothing?"

"No, because you're a stubborn ass who never does what you're told."

Sam's jaw clenched. "So stop telling me to do things you know I won't do."

Dean scowled. "What are you? Five?"

"No, and that's my whole point." Stress and worry were fueling Sam's anger. "I'm not a kid any more. You can't shove me under the bed any time something dangerous shows up."

Dean snorted. "When was the last time you fit under a bed?"

"Exactly." Sam's voice softened. "You've be throwing yourself between me and the bad guys my whole life, Dean. All through my rehab, through this whole thing with Gaston, you were right there." He sighed. "You gotta know I'm there for you, too."

Dean was quiet for a moment. "When those guys were wailing on me, shooting that crap into me, I could handle it because I knew you got away." He looked up a Sam. "I can't handle it if it's you, Sammy."

Sam held his brother's gaze. "It's no different for me."

Dean rolled his head across the pillow, allowing his left eye to slide closed. "Then we're both screwed."

Sam's eyebrow quirked. "So, what? You wanna give up hunting? Go for something nice, safe and boring, like…Wal-Mart greeter?"

Dean shot Sam a look. "Uh-uh. Kids are germ factories. You never know what you'll catch."

Sam bit back a smile. "Okay. IT support."

"Death by boredom."

"Accounting?"

"Paper cuts – could turn septic."

Sam leaned back against the gurney. "Guess we're stuck with hunting, then."

"Guess so." Dean turned back to look at Sam. "But don't think this gets you out the ass-kicking I owe you."

Sam's smile faded, as he stared down at his knee. "There was big body count on this one, Dean. A lot of good people, a lot-"

"…of scumbags," Dean cut in, scowling at Sam's expression. "Okay, my eyes must be screwed because I swear you look guilty."

Sam's voice was low. "Gaston was human., So was Durrell, Connor-"

"Gaston was a monster, in every definition of the word," Dean growled. "You start beating yourself up because you had the brains and the balls to figure out a way to survive this, I really will kick your ass."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, I-"

"Look at me." Dean waited until Sam made eye contact. "If Gaston didn't use you, it would have been someone else, then someone else, then someone else – all innocent people who are still alive because of what you did. They won't have to go through the hell that Donald Chapman did. That Jack Monroe did." His voice softened. "That their families are still going through."

Sam took in his brother's bandaged face, the tremor in his hand as he gripped the safety rail, the wires to the sensors tracking his irregular heartbeat. "I know. And given the same circumstances, I wouldn't do anything different. It's just…what we do is hard enough without blurring the line even further, you know?"

"I know." Dean studied his brother for a moment, then rolled onto his back with another groan. "You keep this up, you're gonna need another transplant."

"What?"

Dean's eyes slid closed. "Swap that bleeding heart of yours for something less emo."

Sam smiled despite himself. "Jerk. That is so not funny."

Dean offered a tired grin. "Yeah, it is. Just a little." He sighed. "But, hey, if you weren't always riding my ass about the sanctity of life, I'd really be worried."

"Worried about what?"

Both brothers turned toward the door as Doc walked into the exam room. She wore a 'Visitor's ID badge attached to the zipper of her jacket and carried a large manila envelope.

Dean cleared his throat. "Gaston. Got any news?"

Doc stood between the gurneys, glancing from one brother to the other. "He's definitely dead. They found him in his cell – his liver ripped out, and missing."

Dean smiled tightly. "That's another drink I owe Haskell."

Sam looked over at Doc. "The liver…we think the original donor, um, reclaimed it."

Doc nodded, seemingly unsurprised, as she dropped the envelope on the bottom of the gurney and began to check on Dean. "Forgive me is this sounds harsh, but from everything you've told me about Gaston, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"That's what I said, right Sammy?" Dean groaned, more in annoyance than pain as Doc gently rolled him onto his side to examine his back. "Doc, quit it. I'm fine."

Ignoring Dean's protests, Doc frowned as she studied the bruises that surrounded his spine. "Jesus, Dean, I can tell what kind of boots this bastard wore."

"It's nothing." Dean's flinch at Doc's touch quickly revealed the lie. "I've had worse."

Doc's eyes widened. "And that's supposed to reassure me?"

Dean gritted his teeth as Doc again rolled him onto his back. "You wanna make me feel better, tell me Gaston's already ashes."

"I just talked to Bobby," Doc said, straightening Dean's blankets, "He's been in touch with hunters in the northern part of the state. As soon as the body's released from autopsy, before if they can get to it, they'll make sure it's salted and burned.

"Until then…" She turned to Sam, digging in her pocket and pulling out a Sharpie and a piece of folded paper. "Bobby suggests you draw on this protection symbol -- just in case Gaston has any plans for revenge from the other side. The physical link is gone but, with dark magic…"

"…you can't be to careful." Sam took the pen and paper. "Thanks."

"Damn it." Dean was speaking through clenched teeth as he tried to push himself up. "Just get us out of here and we'll salt and burn the bastard ourselves."

Doc turned quickly, gently pushing Dean back onto the gurney. "Sorry, Dean, you two aren't going anywhere."

Something in Doc's tone immediately put Sam on alert. "Why? What's wrong?

Doc's voice was soft. "Those animals did a lot of damage. It's going to take surgery to fix it."

Dean's attention jumped to his brother. "Sammy's knee?"

Doc shook her head. "Sam doesn't need the surgery, Dean. You do."

"It's his eye, right?" Sam leaned forward worriedly. "Or did the drugs do something?"

"Both are concerns, but it's Dean's eye that requires surgery."

Dean's fingers tightened around the safety rail of the gurney. "Spit it out, Doc. How bad is it?"

Doc grabbed the envelope from the base of the gurney and walked over to the wall near Sam. Pulling an x-ray from the envelope, she clipped it to a light box and flipped the switch, illuminating an image of Dean's skull. Doc pointed to the area under his right eye. "There are two main concerns; the cracked orbital bone here, and the hematoma, forming here."

Sam's eyes jumped from the x-ray to his brother and back. "What about the eye itself? His sight?"

Doc exhaled slowly. "As the hematoma fills with blood, it's creating pressure on the eye which, if left untreated, could cause permanent damage." Her voice became reassuringly emphatic. "But we're not gonna let that happen. We've caught this early and you're in a good hospital. There's every reason to believe surgery will be successful."

Dean's voice was as tight as his grip on the railing. "You said there were two concerns. What's the other?"

Doc pointed again to the x-ray. "Two bone chips – here and here – have broken loose. Right now, they're not a major cause for alarm but, if they were to migrate, they could pose a threat to the optic nerve. We want to take them out before that happens."

Sam looked almost as pale as Dean. "So when can you do the surgery?"

Doc flipped the switch, turning off the light box, and walked back to the side of Dean's gurney. "Ideally, as soon as possible but we need to flush that toxic soup from your system first."

Sam's gaze stayed fixed on his brother. "Did you find out what they gave him?"

Doc looked over at Sam. "It's some kind of speed cocktail. The lab has identified most of what's in it but there are still a couple of unknown elements." She turned to Dean. "It's why we can't give you any painkillers right now, why anesthesia would be dangerous – we don't know what the drug interactions would be."

Sam winced as he pushed himself up. "How long before that crap is out of his system?"

"As a general rule with amphetamines, they stay in the blood for about 12 hours." Doc glanced at her watch. "From what you've told us, you were last dosed about six hours ago. We'll monitor you closely for the next six; hopefully, by then, the lab will have some answers and we can move ahead with the surgery." She reached over the safety rail and squeezed Dean's shoulder. "The good news is one of hunters who rescued you found a syringe and a vial of the drug. They're down at the lab now. Having a pure sample to work with will really speed things up."

Dean was quiet for a moment, then looked past Doc to his brother. "What about Sam's knee?"

Sam exhaled loudly. "Dean, we're talking about you. We need-"

"I said, what about Sammy's knee?"

"It's a bad sprain." Doc frowned as she moved to the side of Sam's gurney, reexamining the injured joint. "You should have an ice pack on this."

Sam motioned with his head toward the discarded wrap on the adjacent cabinet. "Wasn't cold any more."

Doc caught Dean's silent demand for more information. "I'd say the injury puts Sam about a month to six weeks behind in his rehab." She crossed to the cupboards on the far side of the room, opening three of them before finding the fresh chemical ice pack she was looking for. "He'll be back on crutches for a few days but, after that, the knee brace should be enough." Moving back to Sam's side, Doc cracked open the ice pack, shook it and gently wrapped it around his knee.

Dean followed her actions closely. "But there's no permanent damage?"

Doc turned toward Dean and shook her head. "Once the sprain heals, he'll be right back on track." She folded her arms. "Gaston's gone, Dean. Physically, Sam's surgery was always a success. This injury…it's just a minor setback, nothing more."

Dean's jaw clenched. "What about the other crap – you know, Gaston using Sam as a psychic Duracell? Did that do…anything?"

Doc smiled softly. "Sam's been through almost as many tests as you, Dean. He needs a good meal, a good night's sleep and to be able to quit worrying about you. How 'bout you help him out with that last one, huh?"

Dean ran his fingers down the bandages covering the right side of his face, a flash of anxiety visible briefly as his emotional armor cracked. "No bull – you _can_ fix this?"

"The odds are all in your favor." Doc moved to the side of his gurney. "Look, I'm going to go find your surgeon, ask her to come and talk to you. She'll explain the procedure, answer any questions you have."

A smile tugged at the corner of Dean's mouth, the armor quickly repaired. "She?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Doc just smiled.

"Her name is Dr. Isla Franklin. She has an excellent reputation." Doc crossed again to the cupboards on the far side of the room, opened one and pulled out a small pillow. She returned to Dean's bedside, gently lifted his head and placed the pillow underneath. "Try not to move around too much, okay? If you notice any change, if the pain gets worse, don't hesitate-"

"I know, hit the call button." Dean's voice softened. "Thanks…you know, for…"

"Yeah." Doc smiled at Dean, winked at Sam, then disappeared through the swinging door into the corridor beyond.

Sam frowned as Dean stared straight ahead, rolling the edge of the blanket that covered him back and forth between his thumbs and forefingers. "You're gonna be fine, Dean. The surgery's gonna work."

"I know." Dean rolled his head slowly across the pillow to face Sam. "Just make damn sure they don't use anybody else's spare parts in the process."

xxxXXXxxx

"Did you just giggle?"

Dean frowned at his brother. "Deans don't giggle." He wrinkled his nose, then turned his gaze back to the ceiling, blinking each time he passed under a light.

"Deans, huh?" Sam, swinging his crutches with practised ease, shook his head as he walked alongside his brother's gurney as it was pushed toward the OR. "I know the drugs have taken hold when you start referring to yourself in the third person."

They'd been at the hospital for close to eighteen hours. The lab had finally identified all elements of the street drug Dean had been given and, when doctors determined it had worked its way through his system to the point it no longer posed a threat, surgery had been scheduled. Now he was under the influence of a legal drug with much more pleasant side effects.

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Her name fits."

Sam's eyebrow quirked as he looked from his brother to Doc, who was walking on the opposite side of the gurney, her hand on the safety rail. She shrugged.

Sam shook his head. "Whose name fits?"

Dean offered a loopy smile. "My doctor. Her name's Isla."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. And…"

Now Dean looked annoyed. "Get with the program, Sammy. Her name's Isla and she's gonna fix my eye. Get it? Eye-la."

"Um, wow…" Sam's eyes widened as he looked again at Doc, who was biting back a smile.

Dean nodded. "Think I'll call my nurses Ei-leen and I-rene." He snorted at his own joke.

Sam looked over at Doc. "I should be recording this because he'll deny saying any of it once he comes down." He turned back to Dean. "Okay, I'll play. Your anesthesiologist is a dude. What are you gonna call him? Ivan?"

"No." Dean frowned at Sam for a moment, then grinned. "Seymour." He snorted again.

Sam smiled despite himself. "Geez, Doc, what the heck did they give him? I've seen him high before surgery but, man, he's flying."

Dean's smile disappeared, his hand smacking the gurney's safety rail as he reached frantically for Sam. "Changed my mind, Sammy. Can't do it. Turn this thing around."

"Dean, chill." Sam motioned for the orderly pushing the gurney to stop, then found his balance on his crutches so he could reach over the railing and grab Dean's arm. "What is it? You were fine with surgery."

Dean grabbed his brother's shirt. "You didn't say anything about a plane."

"Plane? What…" Sam exhaled audibly when he realized what had happened. "I said you were flying – as in _high as a kite,_ on whatever drugs they gave you to relax."

Dean frowned. "So, no airplanes?"

"No planes, I promise."

"No airports?"

Sam shook his head. "No airports either. Just the OR."

"Awesome." Dean released his grip on Sam's shirt, his arm dropping limply to his side, the single word dripping with sarcasm. "How screwed am I that I like ORs better than airports?"

Doc nodded at the orderly who resumed pushing the gurney toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. She reached over the railing and gave Dean's hand a squeeze. "Hang in there. They're gonna take good care of you."

Dean rolled his head toward Doc. "They're gonna stick a sharp knife in my eye. How's that _good_?"

"It's going to undo the damage that animal did to you." Worry and anger mixed equally in Doc's words. "Make sure those pretty green eyes work the way they're supposed to. Make sure you can protect yourself, and your brother, from all the nasty things you two deal with on a daily basis."

Dean nodded slowly. "And check out chicks."

Doc smiled. "That, too. How could I forget?" She walked to the end of the gurney and pushed open the doors to the surgical wing.

As the orderly began to roll the gurney through, Dean twisted his head toward his brother when he realized Sam was no longer at his side. "Keep up, Sammy."

Sam shook his head. "End of the line for me, man. I'm not allowed in there." The orderly paused for a moment, allowing Sam to move back into Dean's eyeline. "Doc's got the okay to observe the surgery, though, so she'll be in there with you. Make sure they do everything by the book."

Dean shook his head. "You should come in, too. Just sneak in behind Doc: they'll never see you."

Sam glanced over at Doc, all 5'4" of her. "Yeah, that'll work." He smiled down at his brother. "Just relax; let them do their jobs. I'm gonna park my ass out here, then I'll see you in recovery in no time."

Dean frowned. "Recovery?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Doc's promised to get me in there – rules or no rules."

Dean smiled sleepily. "Told you sneaking in with her would work. You just have to hunch down a bit…maybe turn sideways." He raised his hand toward his brother. "Later, Sammy."

Sam reached forward and clasped his brother's wrist, as Dean squeezed his. "Later."

He released his hold and stepped back, the doors swinging shut as Dean, Doc and the orderly disappeared on the other side. Sam wavered on his crutches, the bravado he'd maintained for Dean's sake evaporating with his brother. His legs felt like jelly.

Shakily, he made his way over to the small, surgical waiting room. The only other occupants were a middle-aged couple seated in the far corner. He nodded politely, leaned his crutches against the wall, and then sank into one of the vinyl, padded chairs near the entrance. He winced, his knee objecting to the maneuvering, then twisted around a second chair to rest his leg on.

It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it would do. He dropped his head back against the waiting room wall, allowed his eyes to slide shut, and waited.

xxxXXXxxx

"Sam?"

Sam jumped, the soft voice so different from the deep timbre of his brother's, his usual wake-up call. His eyes snapped open when the fog of sleep rolled back and he remembered where he was.

He blinked, his vision focusing on Doc as she crouched beside his chair in the surgical waiting room. "How's Dean?"

Doc smiled. "Came through with flying colors."

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face and pushed himself up in his chair. "No bull – his eye's good?"

Doc nodded. "The bleeding's stopped, the excess blood that was creating the pressure has been drained and they got out both bone chips that posed a threat." She gave Sam's arm a reassuring squeeze. "There's no damage to the optic nerve, nothing that should have any permanent effect on his eyesight."

Sam exhaled audibly. "Damn, that's good to hear." He yawned as he glanced around the waiting room; the couple that had been there earlier had left at some point so he and Doc were alone. "Where is he now?"

"In the recovery room. Should be another 10 minutes or so before he wakes up." Doc smiled as she straightened up and sat in the chair beside Sam. "Give yourself a minute to do the same thing, then I'll take you to see him."

Sam nodded, then cleared his throat. "Doc, you've been great through all this – my knee, and now Dean, I-"

Doc gave his hand a squeeze. "The only thanks I need is for you two to stay out of trouble for a while."

Sam snorted. "Don't know if I can promise that. Trouble seems to ride around in the back seat of the Impala."

Doc laughed. "I've noticed. But you really need to dump that passenger, let her hitchhike with someone else for a couple of weeks. Let Dean recover, let your knee heal…let my frayed nerves mend." She twisted around to face him. "How does a couple of weeks at the Ellisons' cabin sound? Just say yes and I can get the key."

Sam's brow furrowed. "You sure there's nothing going on between you and Doc Ellison? You seem to have free rein with that cabin."

Doc smiled as she stood up and grabbed Sam's crutches, offering them to him. "Come on, I'll take you Dean." She winked. "I'll tell you the story on the way there."

Sam pulled his leg off the chair it was resting on, grimacing as his knee objected to being in one position for too long, but he stood with only a slight wobble. He took the crutches from Doc, settled himself on them, and then waved his hand toward the corridor. "Lead on." He grinned. "This should be good."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean dreamed about Jenna the gymnast, waking with the smile.

"Hey. Welcome back."

Dean frowned. Damn. He didn't remember Jenna's voice being that deep.

"Dean?"

Sam. Of course it was Sam; he'd know that worried tone anywhere. "What's goin' on, Sammy?," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

"You tell me. How're you feeling?"

Dean peeled open his eyes, frowning when he could see nothing out of his right and his left was blurry. Two figures hovered over him on his left, both tall with dark hair and balanced on crutches. He frowned as his vision cleared. "There's two of you."

Both brothers nodded. "Just give it a minute. Surgery went well. You're gonna be fine."

Surgery? Right. His eye. Dean blinked rapidly and his two brothers slid together, forming one. "I'm gonna see okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'll let the docs explain the technical side of it but, bottom line, no permanent damage. In time, you'll be back to 20-20."

Dean smiled tiredly. "Good. So I can I get out of here, right?"

Sam snorted. "You're not even out of recovery, Dean. Give it a few minutes, will you."

"How long am I stuck here?"

Sam shrugged. "At least until morning."

"It's morning somewhere." Dean pulled at the hospital gown he wore. "Just find me some clothes and let's hit the road."

Sam shook his head. "One, Doc would kill me if I let you do that, and, two, my right knee is screwed and you can't see – which one of us is gonna drive?"

Dean mulled that problem for a moment, then offered a sleepy grin. "I'll drive, you navigate."

Sam looked at his brother incredulously. "Right. And when the cops pull us over, the first words out of their mouths will be, "Great teamwork, guys."

Dean failed to see the humor. "Well, what are we supposed to do? I don't want stay here or hang out in that dumpy motel until you driving leg's fixed or I can see straight."

Sam nodded. "I know. And I'm with you on that, but Doc's offered us another two weeks at the cabin. She's off arranging a ride up there and a tow for the Impala right now."

Dean looked up at Sam. "Ellison definitely has a thing for Doc."

Sam laughed. "That's what I said but, you'll love this: Doc won two weeks at the cabin in a poker game."

Dean snorted. "Doc's a card shark?"

Sam nodded. "Apparently. She and a group of docs get together for a weekly game. Ellison had reached his limit but threw a stay at the cabin into the pot to try to rescue his hand. But Doc's four-of-a-kind beat his full house."

"Damn." Dean yawned. "How'd we not know that? We need to challenge her to a game. I wanna see this myself."

Sam smiled. "So you're good with staying at the cabin?"

Dean shrugged, nestling his head in the pillow. "Cool place, cool tunes - what's not to like? Especially since Gaston's been evicted." He frowned, his left eye sliding open. "Speaking of that son of bitch, any news?"

Sam reached up and pulled down the neck of his t-shirt; the symbol he'd drawn there as protection against any potential attack by Gaston's spirit was gone. "Bobby called just after they put you under. Gaston was salted and burned two hours ago. Case closed."

"Amen." Dean blinked up at Sam. "So you're good? All quiet on the psychic front?"

"Dean, I'm fine." Sam adjusted his crutches. "Remember the deal? It's my turn to worry about you."

Dean shook his head, his eyes sliding closed. "I was under the influence when I agreed to that. Doesn't count." His voice was slurred as the drugs in his system lured him back to sleep. "It's my job to keep you safe, Sammy. Always will be, no matter how old you get, no matter how annoyingly big you get. So, you're just gonna have to live with that."

"Guess so, jerk."

Dean smiled, but the expected retort remained unspoken as he drifted off.

xxxXXXxxx

The door slid open, revealing the hospital lobby beyond. Doc and Sam were standing on the far side, close to the main entrance.

Dean smiled as he stepped out of the elevator and crossed the bright atrium. Sam had ditched his crutches and now stood in his familiar wide-legged stance, shoulders hunched forward, hands jammed in his pockets, hair falling over his eyes as he nodded in response to something Doc said.

The only visible signs of the knee injury were the safety pins that held the right leg of his jeans together. The bruises on his face were still vivid but Sam looked relaxed – all the tension of the past few weeks gone, at least on the surface.

Dean knew his brother too well to believe it would last; Sam was a natural worrier. If he was being honest, they both were – Dean was just better at hiding it. Or maybe Sam just let him believe he was.

But Gaston was gone. They'd beaten him, stopped him from hurting anyone else and, most importantly as far as Dean was concerned, stopped him from hurting Sam.

Doc laughed at something Sam said, then turned her head to see Dean approaching. As Sam followed her line of sight and saw his brother, his eyebrows peaked in surprise.

Dean grinned, dropping his small duffel at his feet. "What do you think? Pretty cool look, huh?" The heavy bandaging down the side of his face was gone, replaced by a small bandage over the eye itself, held in place by a black eye patch.

Sam smiled and nodded. "It's…interesting."

Dean tapped the patch. "Chick magnet. Wait and see."

Sam rolled his eyes. "So, how'd it go?"

"Fine."

Both Doc and Sam folded their arms, canting their heads expectantly.

"You two practise that?" Dean shook his head. "Fine. Bloodwork's clear. Heart rate's level. Swelling around my eye is down…Oh, and the highlight of my day so far, I had to pee in a bottle – again – before they'd let me leave."

"And…" Doc was unfazed by Dean's building rant.

Dean sighed. "Minute traces of the drug, all well below acceptable levels."

Sam frowned, wincing slightly as he shifted his stance. "And the eye itself? Your vision? Everything still on track?"

Dean tapped the patch. "I'm stuck with this for a few more days but, otherwise, yeah. The lovely Dr. Isla thinks I might be able to see out of it by the end of the week. Long-term prognosis still good."

Doc shoved her hands in her pockets. "And for follow-up care?"

"All records are being forwarded to Stanford so I can see the quacks up there for any more check-ups I need." He offered Doc an exaggerated grin and then turned to his brother. "Your turn, Samantha. Where are your crutches?"

Sam patted his right leg. "Traded'em in for my leg brace, and I'll only have to wear this for about another week or so."

Doc nodded. 'I've made an appointment for him with Cole –Dr. Tynan – when we get to Palo Alto, just so he can get up to speed on this setback but, otherwise, everything's good."

"That's what I like to hear." Dean glanced up at the glass hospital doors, squinting at the bright sunshine spilling in from outside. "Now, can we get out of here, please. I've been cooped up inside way too long."

Sam nodded. "We're just waiting for our ride."

Coop, one of the hunters who'd rescued them from Durrell's dockyard, had business in the Bay Area and had offered to drive the three of them to Palo Alto and tow the Impala. They'd stay with Doc for a few days until one of them was ready to drive, then they'd head to the cabin. The only part of the plan Dean wasn't too fond of was the towing his car part.

He looked from Doc to Sam. "This Coop know what he's doing? My baby's not too fond of strangers. She-"

"Dean, chill." Sam was shaking his head. "Given how…protective you are, I told Coop you'd like to be there when he hitches up the Impala. When he gets here, we'll head to the motel and you can supervise while he hooks her up."

Dean grinned. "Good boy."

Doc laughed, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket. "And, if you have room for more than one lady in your life, I know someone who'd like to meet you." She offered the paper to Dean. "Her name is Taylor. I think you'll like her."

Dean eyed the paper suspiciously, then glanced from Doc to Sam. "This some kind of trick? You setting me up."

Sam held up his hands. "Don't look at me man. I had nothing to do with this."

Doc gestured with the paper again. "Two pens and a notebook – at all times. Write down phone numbers. Wasn't that what you said? Taylor asked about you, so…"

Dean frowned. "I've met her?"

Doc nodded. "She's one of the recovery room nurses at Stanford. She's nice, so-"

Dean's face fell. "Nice?"

Doc rolled her eyes. "Sorry. That's a four-letter word, isn't it? Okay…think Sandra Bullock, circa Speed, with a voice like Demi Moore. Wicked sense of humor – more than a match for you."

Dean brightened, memory suddenly sparking a smile. "Right – long hair, big brown eyes, kind of tuck-under-the-arm height?"

Doc nodded. "That's her. She's not looking for anything long-term but she's certainly up for some fun." She grinned, waving the piece of paper again.

Dean plucked the paper from Doc's hand. "That's more like it. Thanks." He glanced over at his brother. "What about Sammy? You got one for him, too?"

Sam shook his head. "Oh no. If I want a date, I'll find my own."

Dean stared at his brother. "Fine. Once we're mobile, you've got three days to find one."

Sam eyes widened incredulously. "What?"

Dean grinned, shoving the piece of paper in his pocket. "Not kidding, Sammy. Three days to find a date, have some fun, or, me and Doc, we're staging an intervention, finding you one."

"Dean, come on-"

Doc laughed. "You two leave me out of this, but," she looked up at Sam, "Dean's right about having some fun. What you two do, what you go through…if you're going to save the world, once in a while you have to remind yourself what you're saving it for."

Dean snorted. "You read that in a Hallmark card?"

"Smartass." Doc punched him playfully in the arm. "Okay, it was corny, but take my point."

Dean grinned at Sam. "Oh, he will. Three days, Sammy. Clock starts now." He cut off Sam's protest by pointing outside. "This our ride?"

Sam turned to look as Coop's SUV rolled up. "Yeah."

Dean bent down to pick up his duffel. "Finally. First stop, we pick up the car." He glanced over at Sam and the safety pins that still held his ripped jeans together. "Second, we go buy you some new pants. You look ridiculous. You'll never get a date looking like that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right. This coming from the guy with the pirate patch."

Dean clapped Sam on the back, threw his arm around Doc's shoulder and steered her toward their ride. "There's two guys in the world who can pull off this look – me, and Johnny Depp."

Sam shook his head as he limped after his brother. "Okay, so, while we're shopping we're picking up dreads and eyeliner, too?"

"Bite me." Dean grinned down at Doc. "Now, back to Sammy's date. Think that physiotherapist would go out with him? I mean, her biceps weren't THAT much bigger than his..."

**FINIS**

**A/N:** _And so, another adventure ends. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. If you have a moment, I'd love to know what you think. Until next time – and yes, a couple of plot bunnies are hopping around in my backyard – enjoy Season 5. Woo hoo!_


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